YANKEE  FANTASIES 


OTHER  WORKS 
BY   PERCY   MACKAYE 


The  Canterbury  Pilgrims.   A  Comedy. 

Jeanne  d'Arc.     A   Tragedy. 

Sappho  and  Phaon.    A  Tragedy. 

Fenris,    the    Wolf.     A    Tragedy. 

A  Garland  to  Sylvia.  A  Dramatic  Re 
verie. 

The  Scarecrow.  A  Tragedy  of  the 
Ludicrous. 

Mater.    An  American  Study  in  Comedy. 

Anti-Matrimony.     A    Satirical   Comedy. 

To-morrow.    A  Play  in  Three  Acts. 

Poems. 

Lincoln:  A  Centenary  Ode. 

The  Playhouse  and  the  Play.    Essays. 


YANKEE  FANTASIES 


Five  One-Act  Plays 


BY 


PERCY  MACKAYE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912. 
By  PERCY   MACKAYE. 


All  of  the  plays  in  this  volume  have  been  copyrighted  and  published 
simultaneously  in  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain. 

All  acting  rights,  both  professional  and  amateur,  are  reserved,  in 
the  United  States,  Great  Britain  and  all  countries  of  the  Copyright 
Union,  by  Percy  MacKaye.  Performances  forbidden  and  right  of 
representation  reserved.  Piracy  or  infringement  will  be  prosecuted  in 
accordance  with  penalties  provided  by  the  United  States  Statutes:  Sec. 
4966,  U.  S.  Revised  Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 

Permission  to  perform  any  of  the  plays  in  this  volume  must 
be  obtained  from  the  author. 

Persons  desiring  to  read  professionally  in  public  any  of 
these  plays  should  first  apply  to  the  author. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian. 


J.  E.  F. 

THESE  FANTASIES 

ARE  DEDICATED 

IN  FRIENDSHIP 


242368 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
Preface    ix 

CHUCK:  An  Orchard  Fantasy  j 

GETTYSBURG:  A  Woodshed  Commentary 35 

THE  ANTICK:  A  Wayside  Sketch 55 

THE  CAT-BOAT :  A  Fantasy  for  Music 107 

SAM  AVERAGE:  A  Silhouette 137 


PREFACE 

In  country  New  England,  where  the  writer  has 
lived  a  large  part  of  his  winters  and  summers,  human 
life  is  endowed  with  a  poetry  and  drama  distinctive,  and 
not  often  realized  by  the  casual  observer,  revealing 
its  true  nature  only  to  those  who  love  it  with  knowl 
edge.  From  its  half  outwintered  Puritanism — like 
arbutus  from  March-thaw  banks — bloom  strange  hu 
man  surprises:  some  lovely  as  flowers  fragrant  of 
their  native  haunts;  others  exotic,  pagan,  humorous, 
grotesque  with  contrasts,  which  fascinate  and  pique 
the  dramatic  artist  to  interpret  them  adequately. 

For  under  all  the  outward  dunness  of  Yankee  life, 
there  burns  dimly  a  kind  of  smothered  rebellion 
against  its  own  chill  constraint:  a  rebellion  which 
blazes  up  in  color,  rather  than  fire,  in  a  variety  of 
human  species,  of  which  such  a  nature  as  Margaret 
Fuller's,  in  "Transcendental"  days,  is  suggestively  an 
example. 

The  native  race,  moreover,  is  dying,  or  being  trans 
muted,  and  this  touches  the  imagination  of  the  drama 
tist  to  interpret  it  before  its  inevitable  passing. 

These  little  plays  hardly  unveil  the  borderland  of 
the  wistful  poetry  of  that  passing;  but  at  least  they 
may  suggest,  through  fantasy,  the  quaintness  and 
surprisingness  of  truth,  in  characters  such  as  Chuck, 
Julie  Bonheur,  Jonas  Boutwell,  Link  Tadbourne. 

ix 


x  PREFACE 

\ 

Thus  the  woodchuck  traits  of  native  character  are 

familiar  to  the  selectmen  of  every  small  Yankee  com 
munity  in  their  dealings  with  the  poachings  and  va 
grancies  of  the  local  church-and-town-scoffing  rap 
scallion,  who  personally  is  often  the  most  charming 
boon  companion  of  the  countryside. 

The  innate  contempt  of  the  Yankee  for  the  "Canuck" 
(his  French  invader  from  Canada),  increased  by 
contrast  of  temperament  and  the  steady  encroachings 
of  the  Canuck  industrially  upon  the  more  agricultural 
race;  the  survival,  in  modified  form  to-day,  of  Old 
England's  "Anticks"  and  buffoon  Masquers  in  the 
holiday  appearances  of  the  so-called  "Antiques  and 
Horribles":  these  are  characteristic  rather  of  Massa 
chusetts  communities  than  of  other  parts  of  New 
England. 

In  the  interpretation,  moreover,  of  all  Yankee*  na 
ture,  the  truth  is  not  to  be  ignored  that  the  race  of 
New  England  has  always  been  a  race  of  readers,  so 
that  the  tradition  of  books  has  become  for  them  a  vital 
part  of  real  life,  entering  even  into  the  thoughts  and 

*In  the  interpretation  of  rural  Yankee  characters,  the  use  of  their 
distinctive  dialect  is,  of  course,  needful.  It  is  not  really  possible, 
however,  to  record  any  dialect  artistically  in  the  symbols  of  spelling.  The 
implied  shades  of  sound  are  subtle,  and  must  be  known  to  the  reader 
beforehand  to  be  justly  reproduced  by  him  in  sound  from  the  written 
page.  The  trained  actor  can,  of  course,  render  them  rightly  to  the 
ears  of  his  audience  only  if  he  be  familiar  with  the  spoken  dialect. 
The  spellings  thar  and  ye,  for  example — dialect  forms  for  there  and 
you — are  no  adequate  record  of  those  words  as  spoken  by  a  person 
who  uses  the  dialect  unconsciously.  Such  a  person  uses  elisions  and 
shadings  of  sound  impossible  to  record,  even  by  resorting  to  grotesque 
methods. 

Yer,  or  yuh,  for  instance,  is  no  clearer  a  symbol  than  ye  for  sug 
gesting  the  sound  of  that  word  as  spoken  variously  in  dialect.  Morn- 
over,  country  New  Englanders  use  the  dialect  in  all  stages  of  its 
gradual  disintegration,  from  those  who  use  still  a  pure  "Bigelow" 
vocabulary  and  pronounciation,  to  those  whose  dictionary  English  is 
tinged  by  the  mere  dying  twang  of  Yankeedom. 

To  the  eye,  therefore,  the  written  dialect  forms  must  miss  something 
of  their  spoken  naturalness;  but  this  is  unavoidable. 


PREFACE  xi 

motives  of  the  illiterate.  Thus  the  actual  "life-study" 
suggestion  for  Jonas  Boutwell,  in  "The  Antick,"  was 
a  dear  old  cow-driving,  congregational  minister,  from 
whom  I  received — sonorously  intoned — my  earliest  ex 
cerpts  from  the  Elizabethan  dramatists ;  and  a  carpen 
ter  found  reading  The  Odyssey — as  in  "The  Cat-Boat" 
— is  not  yet  a  prodigy  among  the  children  of  Massa 
chusetts  schoolmasters. 

In  a  recent  volume  on  "The  Repertory  Theatre," 
Mr.  P.  P.  Howe  has  convincingly  shown  how  the 
present  crying  "need  of  the  theatre  is  freedom  to  ex 
periment,"  and  how  the  promise  of  that  freedom  lies 
in  "the  Repertory  Spirit." 

Among  the  few  distinguished  achievements  of  rep 
ertory  in  English  thus  far,  the  productions  of  the  Irish 
Players  are  eminent.  Significantly,  those  productions 
have  been,  in  large  measure,  one-act  plays;  and  sig 
nificantly  one-act  plays  have  elsewhere  been  practically 
absent  from  the  regular  English-speaking  stage.  Thus, 
but  for  the  founding  of  the  Abbey  Theatre  at  Dublin, 
many  charming  and  characteristic  works  of  poets  like 
Yeats  and  Singe  might  never  have  been  written.  On 
the  other  hand,  among  the  "long  run"  dramatists,  Mr. 
J.  M.  Barrie  appears  to  be  the  one  exceptional  author 
of  produced  one-act  plays. 

Yet  the  one-act  play  is  not  only  a  form  of  expres 
sion  fascinating  in  its  manifold  possibilities  of  dra 
matic  suggestion ;  it  is  also  a  distinctive  form,  capable 
of  expressing  what  the  longer  play  can  not.  Like  the 
short  story,  it  is  a  special  form  of  literature,  but  un 
like  the  short  story,  the  one-act  play  has  not  yet  found 
its  special  publisher:  that  is,  its  theatrical  producer. 


xii  PREFACE 

With  the  exception  of  the  Abbey  Theatre,  there  is  as 
yet  no  professional  theatre  which  produces  one-act 
plays  in  English  as  a  creative,  artistic  policy. 

In  America,  this  lack  is  the  more  to  be  deplored  be 
cause  it  is  so  unnecessary.  That  the  needful  creators 
of  literature  exist  in  America  is  demonstrated,  for  in 
stance, — aside  from  our  drama — by  the  high  quality  of 
work  produced  by  a  large  number  of  short-story  wri 
ters,  and  a  lesser  number  of  poets.  That  likewise  there 
exists  the  public  demand  of  all  classes  for  a  form  of 
drama  less  sustained  in  action  and  time  than  the 
three-,  four-,  or  five-act  play,  is  demonstrated  on  the 
one  hand  by  the  nation-wide  desire  of  amateurs  in  col 
leges,  schools  and  elsewhere,  to  perform  and  witness 
one-act  plays,  and  on  the  other  hand,  by  the  desire  of 
millions  to  witness  the  one-act  "sketches"  of  Vaude 
ville.  That  the  needful  money  also  exists  is  not  to  be 
disputed. 

The  one  needful  thing  still  lacking,  then,  is  the  in 
telligent  initiative,  of  individuals  or  communities,  to 
establish  financially  the  practical  means  which  shall 
enable  those  already  existing  creators  of  literature  to 
serve  that  already  existing  demand  for  the  one-act 
form  of  expression,  in  a  way  to  deepen  and  refine  that 
demand  through  enriching  the  power,  charm  and  va 
riety  of  the  one-act  form  itself. 

For  one  thing,  creative  experiment  in  that  form  is 
more  practical  than  in  longer  forms.  Ten  one-act 
plays  might  be  written  by  a  dramatist  in  the  time  re 
quired  for  the  same  writer  to  create  one  long  play. 
Ten  one-act  plays  might  often  be  performed  for  the 
expense  of  one  long  one.  But  still  more  important, 


PREFACE  xiii 

such  creative  experiment  would  make  possible  not 
simply  the  enrichment  of  the  one-act  form  itself,  but — 
by  means  of  that — the  enrichment  of  all  ampler  dra 
matic  forms,  which  are  fed  and  upbuilt  by  the  subtle 
fusings  and  crystallizings  of  the  lesser  forms. 

For  this  the  needful  and  practical  instrument  would 
be  what  I  may  appropriately  term  a  Studio  Theatre — 
a  theatre  dedicated  in  policy  wholly  to  experiment  in 
dramatic  art,  being  for  the  dramatist  what  his  studio 
is  for  the  painter,  or  his  laboratory  for  the  physicist. 

Without  such  a  specific  working  shop,  fully  equip 
ped  with  the  tools  and  interpreters  of  his  art,  and  in 
dependent  of  immediate  sales  for  his  work,  the  scope 
and  growth  of  the  dramatist's  art  must  remain  limited 
by  the  conditions  of  speculative  demand. 

When,  however,  intelligent  initiative  shall  have  es 
tablished  such  Studio  Theatres,  the  American  drama 
tist  will  be  free  to  sketch  and  execute  many  quiet, 
quaint  and  lovely  interpretations  of  our  native  envir 
onment  now  ignored.  Particularly  the  aspects  of  rural 
life  and  character  may  then  be  etched  lovingly  with 
dramatic  light  and  shade,  and  the  dramatist  may  di 
vine  truthfully,  and  interpret  freshly,  from  country- 
life  numberless  varieties  and  conflicts  of  human  char 
acter,  untrammelled  by  the  need  for  Comic  Supple 
ment  appeal,  or  "Old  Homestead"  conventions. 

May  lovers  of  the  theatre  soon  see  this  need  for  its 
art,  and  supply  it! 

The  present  small  volume  seeks  merely  to  suggest  it. 

In  their  themes,  these  five  short  plays  treat  of  only 
a  limited  part  of  the  potential  native  field — the  Yan 
kee,  which  takes  its  national  importance  from  the 


xiv  PREFACE 

deep-seated  historical  influence  of  New  England,  and 
New  England  character,  upon  all  our  national  life  and 
growth. 

Yankee  interpretations,  in  the  spirit  of  fantasy,  have 
before  now  been  conceived  and  welcomed  in  other 
forms  of  literature:  the  novel,  the  poem,  the  short 
story.  Perhaps  they  may  have  their  value,  as  pioneer 
experiment  at  least,  in  the  form  of  drama. 

Quite  apart,  however,  from  the  limited  field  of  these 
fantasies,  unlimited  aspects  of  our  American  life, 
rural  and  civic,  local  and  national,  are  available  to  the 
dramatist  who  shall  invoke  for  his  work  the  Experi 
mental  Spirit,  as  otherwise  they  are  not  available. 

It  would  be  pleasant  if  these  little  plays  might  help 
to  incite  others  in  America  to  invoke  that  Spirit  for  the 
one-act  form  to  larger  and  subtler  results  than  their 
author  has  consummated.  If  so,  they  will  have  served, 
to  that  good  purpose,  the  most  important  cause  in  the 
art  of  our  theatre  to-day — creative  experiment. 

PERCY  MACKAYE. 

CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
October,  1911. 


CHUCK 

An  Orchard  Fantasy 


CHARACTERS 


DEACON  DOLE. 
ABEL,  his  elder  son. 
ELIJAH,  his  younger  son. 
LETTY,  a  young  girl. 


The  scene  is  laid  in  an  old  township  of  northern  New  Eng 
land,  at  the  present  time:  An  Orchard  Hillside,  on  an 
afternoon  in  late  August. 


CHUCK* 

The  foreground  is  shadowed  by  apple-tree  boughs,  beneath 
which  a  footpath  winds  between  piles  of  ripe,  sweet  apples, 
climbs  the  slope  toward  the  background,  and  disappears 
[left]  behind  bushes  of  aider  and  witch-hazel,  the  latter 
in  golden  bloom.  Btlow  these  bushes,  and  partly  screened 
by  others  in  the  left  foreground,  the  edge  of  an  eddying 
pool  is  visible,  flecked  with  sunbeams  and  leaf-shadows 
and  blotched  with  the  luminous  red  of  cardinal  flowers. 

The  pool  is  evidently  the  shallow  curve  of  a  brook,  for  the 
plash  of  a  waterfall  tinkles  behind  the  bushes,  and  occa 
sional  spray  glistens  through  the  greenery.  Near  the 
further  bank  of  the  pool  is  a  low,  flat  bowlder,  behind 
which  a  less  trodden  path  leads  from  the  main  footway 
into  the  hazel  cover. 

In  the  centre  middleground  rises  a  grassy  knoll,  the  top  of 
which  is  scarred  yellow  by  the  gravel  of  a  woodchuck's 
burrow,  partly  excavated,  it  would  seem,  by  a  spade, 
which  stands,  thrust  upright  now,  in  the  debris  nearby. 
Fringing  the  knoll  are  low  bushes  of  huckleberry,  lamb- 
kill  and  sweet  fern;  behind  it,  the  orchard  slopes  down 
steeply  toward  the  right;  beyond  it,  through  the  apple 
trees,  are  glimpses  of  rolling,  summer  hills. 

When  the  scene  opens,  an  oriole  is  singing  somewhere  in  the 
leafy  sunshine. 

•Copyright,   1912,  by  Percy  MacKaye.     All  rights  reserved. 

I 


2  CHUCK 

On  the  ruined  doorsill  of  his  burrow,  a  woodchuck,  squat  on 
comfortable  haunches,  sits  nibbling  an  ear  of  corn. 

Deaf  to  the  one  and  blind  to  the  other,  enters — left,  along  the 
footpath — DEACON  DOLE:  a  spare,  black  figure  in  Sab 
bath-day  garb.  His  shrewd,  shaven  face,  home-cut,  grey 
hair  and  stiff-kneed  gait  are  those  of  a  Yankee  farmer 
about  seventy.  He  walks  slowly,  clutching  a  black  hook  in 
one  hand,  twice  pausing  to  look  back  along  the  path. 

From  away  on  the  left,  a  deep-toned  bell  resounds  with 
regular  cadence. 

With  the  bell  tones,  intermittently  from  beyond  the  bushes, 
are  mingled  the  shrilly  notes  of  a  tin  flute,  piped  merrily. 

On  a  sudden,  conscious  of  the  flute,  the  Deacon  stops  and  lis 
tens;  stoops  and  peers  among  the  bushes;  then  gases 
reflectively  at  the  woodchuck's  hole,  whose  occupant,  at 
his  approach,  has  retired  within,  all  but  his  furry  noddle. 
As  the  old  man  turns  aside  curiously  to  examine  this,  a 
low,  giggling  laughter  is  distinctly  audible.  The  Deacon's 
face  darkens.  Again  the  flute  notes  trill,  in  the  intervals 
of  the  bell. 

THE  DEACON 

[Stands  stiffly  erect,  and  calls  in  a  loud,  harsh  voice.} 
Chuck!— Chuck! 

A  VOICE 

[Deep  like  the  Deacon's,  but  faint,  as  if  far  away.] 
Chuck !— Chuck ! 


CHUCK  3 

[With  troubled  look,  Deacon  Dole  turns  again  to  the  footpath 
and  is  resuming  kis  measured  -walk,  when  the  sharp  report 
of  a  gun  causes  him  to  exclaim  and  start  back.  The  wood' 
chuck's  head  vanishes.] 

THE  DEACON 
[Screwing  his  face.] 
Damn  him! 

[Then  hugging  tighter  his  book,  he  mutters.} 
Lord,  on  Thy  day — into  temptation ! 

A  VOICE 

[From  behind  the  bushes,  musical  and  vibrant  with  laughter.} 
Chucky!     Chucky!     Whoa,  thar! 

[Through  the  hazels  behind  the  bowlder,  ABEL  inters  and 
bounds,  with  a  hop,  skip  and  jump,  to  the  top  of  the  knoll. 
There  he  stands  reloading  his  gun,  and  clucking  his  cheek 
like  a  chipmunk.} 

So,  old  Bunker !  Scot  into  your  breastworks,  did 
ye?  Godfrey,  you  Ve  got  book  larnin'  for  field  sar- 
vice! 

[Abel  is  a  young  fellow,  about  twenty:  a  half -wild  figure, 
clothed  in  tattered  yellow  undershirt  and  blue  overalls, 
frayed  half  to  the  knees — his  bare  arms  and  legs  sun- 
browned  and  splotched  with  wood-stains. 

His  expression  just  now  is  sly  and  twinkling,  as  his  small 
squirrel  eyes  squint  through  his  towsled  tow  hair.  On  his 
head  are  laid  great  green  lily-pads,  tied  by  long,  rubbery 
stems  under  his  chin.  From  his  belt  hang  the  pelts  of 
small  animals,  greyish  brown.  From  one  hip-pocket  sticks 
a  tin  flute,  from  the  other  a  cartridge  box.} 


4  CHUCK 

THE  DEACON 

[Glowering.] 
Mornin',  Chuck! 

[Abel  drops  his  gun  and  starts  up,  scared  by  the  voice.] 
Dressed  for  meetin',  I  see,  and  keepin'  the  Sabbath 
's  usual. 

[Pointing  to  the  lily-pads  on  Abel's  head.] 
What  ye  call  it — bonnet,  or  hat? 

ABEL 

[With  the  gleam  of  a  grin.] 
Them  's  cure  for  sunstroke! 

THE  DEACON 

Oh! — What   have  ye — hired   out  to   a  new   trade, 
sence  ye  broke  jail? 

ABEL 

[His  look  growing  subtle  and  sullen.] 
What  trade? 

THE  DEACON 

[With  the  ghost  of  a  thin  smile.] 
Murder. 

ABEL 
What  ye^goin'  to  run  me  in  for  now? 

THE  DEACON 
Killin'  your  kin,  be  ye? 

ABEL 

[Amazed,  then  amused.] 
Now,  thar!     So  ye  thought  I  took  that  shot — 

THE  DEACON 

Oh,  not  at  me.    I  ain't  no  kin  o'  yourn  now,  no/  you 
ain't  none  o'  mine. 


CHUCK  5 

[Points  to  the  burrow.] 

I  was  makin'  reference  to  them  thievin'  field-rat 
folks  o'  yourn,  the  lusty  varmin  that  farrowed  ye,  and 
swapped  ye  off,  in  my  first-born's  cradle,  for  a  son  o' 
mine ;  them  thar,  that  namesaked  ye,  your  huckleberry 
brethren — the  woodchucks. 

[Smiling,  acidly.] 

Thou  shalt  not  commit  Murder,  saith  the  command 
ment! 

ABEL 

[Who  has  listened  with  growing  good  humor,  shows  the  skins 
at  his  belt  and  laughs.] 

If  ye  mean  old  Bunker  in  thar — look  a-here!  I  've 
skun  the  hull  family,  'ceptin'  the  old  man. 

THE  DEACON 

[Keenly.] 
So  ye  have ;  so  ye  have. 

ABEL 

I  tried  to  dig  him  out  with  the  spade;  but  while  I 
was  bangin'  down  his  front  door,  he  put  on  his  sneak 
ers  and  slipped  out  the  back  ell. 

[Laughs  reminiscently.] 

I  tell  ye:  he  ain't  forgot  his  calc'latin'  tables — the  old 
un! 

THE  DEACON 
[Ruminating,  with  relish.] 
So  he  ain't;  so  he  ain't! 

ABEL 

I  pretty  nigh  cotched  him  last  week,  though.  I 
hadn't  no  gun,  so  he  jest  sat  thar  and  winked.  Then 


6  CHUCK 

I  fetched  a  grab — but  Jehu !  he  can  bite,  when  ye  try 
to  pull  his  leg. 

THE  DEACON 

So  he  can!     And  speakin'  o'  calc'latin',  how  many 
times,  do  you  calc'late,  I  Ve  told  you  to  clear  out? 

[Abel  grins.} 
Eh  ?    Answer  me :  how  many  ? 

ABEL 

[Taking  out  his  flute.} 

So  I  answered  him,  as  I  thought  good : 
"As  many  red  herrin's  as  grow  in  the  wood." 
[He  plays  a  snatch  on  the  flute,  hopping  to  his  tune.} 

THE  DEACON 
[Shaking  his  book  at  him.} 

Quit  it !    Quit,  I  tell  ye ! 
[Abel  puts  up  his  flute,  but  continues  to  twiddle  dumbly  on  his 

left  middle  finger  thrust  in  his  mouth.} 
I  'm  a  square  man.    I  wa'n't  chose  to  be  deacon  for 
nothin'.     I  'm  fair  and  square  at  catechisin',  and  I'm 
givin'  you  one  more  chanct  to  answer  me  back  fair 
and  square. 

ABEL 
[Saluting.] 

Fair  and  square,  Sir. 

THE  DEACON 

Answer  me:  How  much  chores  have  ye  arned  your 
victuals  with,  Chuck — well,  say,  in  the  last  six  months? 

ABEL 
[Grinning,  sits  on  the  burrow  and  lilts.] 

How  much  wood  would  a  woodchuck  chuck, 
If  a  woodchuck  would  chuck  wood? 


CHUCK  7 

THE  DEACON 
[Shaken  with  anger.] 

Damn  ye !  Clear  out,  or  F  11  have  ye  haled  back  to 
jail.  Git  offn  the  place! 

[He  moves  toward  Abel.] 

ABEL 

[Springing  up,  turns  sullen  again.]; 
Guess  it  's  my  place,  too! 

THE  DEACON 
Ye  guess  so! 

ABEL 
And  my  folks  too. 

THE  DEACON 
Yourn?    Ha! 

ABEL 
One  o'  ye  anyhow. 

THE  DEACON 
Which? 

ABEL 
The  gal— Litty. 

THE  DEACON 

Stop :  ye  dares' nt  name  her !  The  gal  ye  Ve  brought 
to  shame  in  your  father's  house ;  her  as  I  'dopted  when 
her  own  folks  died,  and  raised  her  to  be  the  woman  in 
my  own  house,  with  my  own  sons — good  Lord! — and 
to  share  in  the  victuals  and  the  chores — 

ABEL 

[Lilting.] 
And  the  chores,  good  Lord,  and  the  chores ! 


8  CHUCK 

THE  DEACON 

Yes,  the  chores:  She  never  shirked  'em  till  you 
brought  her  to  shame,  and  made  her  grow  slack,  a- 
hankerin'  for  you  and  the  vanities  and  lusts  of  the 
varmin  you  'sort  with. — And  the  likes  of  you  my  flesh 
and  blood — a  Dole! 

ABEL 

Dole!    Dole!    Dole! 
Says  the  De'il  to  the  dead  man's  soul! 

THE  DEACON 

And  look  at  your  brother  'Lijah — town  clerk  a'ready, 
and  redeemed  in  the  Lord's  grace:  and  him  a  year 
younger. 

ABEL 
Pity  I  wa'n't  born  o'  legal  age,  like  'Lijah! 

THE  DEACON 

True  'nough:  you  make  me  a  pretty  son  and  heir, 
don't  ye? 

ABEL 

Sun  and  air  's  pretty  much  all  you've  give'  me  t  j 
grow  on. 

THE  DEACON 

Yes,  thank  God  for  'Lijah !  But  you — you  Ve  lie  1 
and  you  've  drunk ;  you  Ve  lazed  and  you  've  luste  } 
and  you  've  stole :  you  've  stole  from  your  own  horr  *. 
folks,  and  you  Ve  ravished  in  the  house  of  your  father 
But  'Lijah,  your  brother,  he  's  redeemed  ye.  He  's 
put  ye  in  jail. 

ABEL 
[Grinning.] 
Has  he  kep'  me  thar? 


CHUCK  9 

THE  DEACON 

And  he  's  takin'  poor  Letty  to  meetin',  to  marry  her 
himself,  lawful — this  day  and  mornin'. 

ABEL 

[Taking  out  his  flute.] 
If  they  git  thar !— //  they  git  thar ! 

[He  trills  a  repetition  of  the  lilt.] 

THE  DEACON 

[Seising  up  the  gun  from  the  ground.] 
What  ye  mean  by  that,  ye  whistlin'  do-no-good  ? 

ABEL 
If,  says  I;  if!— What's  the  dif? 

THE  DEACON 

[Examining  the  cartridge  in  the  gun,  trembles  with  rage.] 
So !  You  was  layin'  for  your  own  brother  with  this 
gun,  was  ye?  Now,  then,  I'm  done  with  ye,  for  al'ays 
and  all.  Git  out,  you  lustin'  rat,  you  rollin'  stone  o' 
Satan,  ye!  You  filanderin',  murderin'  pest,  git  outn 
here!  Git  outn  my  life,  git  outn  my  home  and  my 
fields.  I  '11  fodder  the  likes  of  ye  no  more. 

[He  raises  and  aims  the  gun  at  Abel,  who  dodges  involun 
tarily.] 

Git  off! 

[Staring  at  the  gun's  nozzle,  Abel  backs  slowly  away,  round 
ing  toward  the  bushes.] 

And  I  warn  ye,  Chuck,  the  last  time :  Keep  in  hidin' — 

[Points  to  the  woodchuck's  hole.] 

— like  him.     For  if  ever  I  set  eyes  on  ye  agin,  tres- 
passin'  on  my  acres,  I  '11  shoot  ye,  for  the  ground-hog 


10  CHUCK 

that  ye  be,  and  bury  ye  thar  in  your  own  burrer.    Git ! 

[Reaching  the  bowlder,  Abel  pauses,  looking  down  at  it,  and 
smiling  a  quiet,  absent-minded  smile,  seems  to  forget  the 
gun  and  the  glowering  deacon.  Loosing  from  his  head 
the  water-lily  pads,  he  drops  them  in  the  ferns  by  the 
rock. 

Above  him,  a  locust  rasps  its  drowsy  midsummer  whirr.  Lis 
tening,  he  stoops,  pulls  a  broad  grass-blade,  splits  it  leis 
urely,  lays  it  between  his  two  thumbs,  and  blows  on  it — 
through  his  lips — a  bussing,  locust-like  noise. 

The  Deacon,  setting  his  jaw,  lets  the  gun-barrel  sink  slowly 
to  the  ground. 

Bussing  his  grass-blade,  Abel  idles  along  the  hazel  path,  and 
disappears. 

The  church  bell,  which  has  rung  at  regular  intervals,  now 
ceases  to  sound.] 

THE  DEACON 
[Climbing  the  footpath — gun  and  book  in  hand — mutters,  as 

he  goes  from  sight.] 
Son  and  heir!     Son  and  heir! 

[From  the  left  now  are  heard  the  reverberating  tones  of  a 
church  organ,  and  soon  after — the  voices  of  a  small  con 
gregation,  singing.  In  the  still  summer  air,  the  words  of 
their  hymn  are  half  distinguishable.] 

THE  VOICES 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow; 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host; 
Praise  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost! 

Amen! 

[While  the  voices  are  singing,  Abel  reappears  from  the  bushes 
and,  lying  on  his  back  upon  the  shady  slope,  plays  an 
answering  improvisation  on  his  flute.  As  he  docs  so,  he 
keeps  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  burrow,  out  of  which  ere  long 
the  head  of  the  woodchuck  emerges.  Catching  sight  of  it, 


CHUCK  ii 

Abel  turns  over  .on  his  stomach,  and — still  fluting  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand — elbows  himself,  with  hitches,  through 
the  huckleberry  shrubs,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  burrow. 
Reaching  it,  he  raises  his  head  suddenly,  and  grabs  with 
one  hand.  The  woodchuck  dodges  in  and  disappears.  Abel 
scrambles  headlong  after  him  into  the  burrow — his  heels 
kicking  the  air.] 

ABEL 
[Coaxingly.] 
Chuck!    Chuck! 

[Front  the  right,  Voices  are  heard  talking. 
Abel  wriggles  outward,  replaces  his  heels  by  his  head,  rubs 
the  fresh  earth  from  his  eyes  and  hair,  and  peers  blinking 
above   the  embankment,  where  only   his  brown  head  is 
visible.] 

A  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

[As  in  pain.] 
I  can't,  'Lijah:  I  just  can't  go  on  't. 

A  MAN'S  VOICE 
'T  ain't  only  a  few  rods  to  the  meetin'  house. 

[Enter,  right,  Letty  and  Elijah.  The  former  is  a  slight  girl, 
in  her  teens,  calm-browed,  with  large,  soft  eyes.  She  is 
still  in  the  faint  blo.om  of  an  early  beauty  fragile  as  an 
hypatica.  Signs  of  drudgery  and  scant  fare,  however,  are 
beginning  to  show  in  the  just  perceptible  stoop  of  her 
figure  and  the  shape  of  her  hardened  hands.  She  is 
dressed  with  plain  simplicity,  except  for  the  white  folds 
of  a  bride's  veil,  pinned  to  her  hair. 

Elijah,  clean-cut  of  feature,  resembles  somewhat  his  father, 
but  lacks  the  Deacon's  dignity  of  years  and  power.  He 
wears  a  styleless  black  suit,  and  speaks  with  a  querulous 
sharpness,  tempered  at  times  by  a  conscious  effort  to  seem 
kinder  than  he  feels. 

Letty,  limping,  reaches  one  hand  toward  Elijah  for  support^ 
but  he  either  does  not  notice,  or  ignores,  the  gesture.} 


12  CHUCK 

LETTY 

[Pausing,  speaks  faintly.] 
I  'm  so  sorry :  I  can't  stand  no  longer. 

[Swaying,  she  sinks  upon  the  ground.] 

ELIJAH 

[Uneasily,  looking  away,  left.] 

We  're  late.     Father  's  gone  ahead  long  ago.     He 
got  acrost  safe.    Where  's  it  hurt  ye? 

LETTY 
[Painfully.] 

My  ankle.    When  I  fell  in  the  brook,  it  got  twisted, 
I  guess. 

ELIJAH 

I  'd  like  to  catch  the  mean-livin'  rascal  that  sawed 
the  footbridge.    I  '11  run  him  in  for  't. 

LETTY 
I  'm  glad  't  was  me,  anyhow ;  and  you  was  behind. 

ELIJAH 

Yes,  I  was  just  'bout  to  set  my  foot  on  't,  when  't 
went  down  with  ye.    Lucky  you  didn't  wet  your  shoes. 

LETTY 
'T  was  'most  dried  up — the  brook. 

ELIJAH 
Wonder  who  did  it! 

[With  sudden  suspiciousness] 
Letty!— Was  it  him? 

LETTY 
[Timidly.] 
Who? 


CHUCK  13 

ELIJAH 

Oh,  you  know,  I  guess :  you  'd  oughter.    Well,  if  it 
's  him,  I  '11  jail  him  for  that  over  again. 

LETTY 
[Appealingly.] 
Please,  but — 

ELIJAH 

[With  deliberate  politeness.] 
Come,  Letitia :  I  '11  help  ye  'long  the  path. 

LETTY 
I  can't. 

ELIJAH 

Can't?    What  will  ye — set  here  and  get  married? 
[Smiling  an  anemic  smile,  he  extends  one  hand  for  her  to  rise.] 
Guess  you  ain't  calc'latin'  on  a  weddin'  by  a  wood- 
chuck's  hole ! 

LETTY 

[Trying  hard  to  smile.] 
No;  I  don't  scarcely  know  what — 

ELIJAH 

Come :  the  minister's  spoke  and  paid  for.    It's  fixed 
we  're  to  jine  him  in  the  vestry,  after  meetin'  's  out. 

LETTY 
It  's  such  a  pity — 

ELIJAH 
[Stiffening.] 
How? 

LETTY 
I  mean — me  bein'  laid  up. 


T4  CHUCK 

ELIJAH 

Well,  you  don't  reckon  I  'm  to  carry  ye,  do  ye? — 
Smart  looks  we  'd  make  at  meetin' — me  heftin'  ye  like 
a  bale  o'  hay !  No,  thank  ye :  I  'd  never  hear  the  last 
on  't.  Come;  git  up;  do! 

LETTY 

[In  an  agony  of  embarrassment,  tries  to  stand,  but  sinks  down 
again.] 

'Tain't  no  use,  'Lijah;  I  'm  'bliged  to  ask  ye  to  go 
back  to  the  four  corners  and  ask  old  Miss  Dikewell 
to  lend  me  her  crutches:  she  '11  help  me  out — just  to 
get  to  meetin'  and  back. 

ELIJAH 
Crutches,  ah? 

[Taking  out  his  watch.] 

Quarter  past  'leven.    You  al'ays  did  make  mountains 
outn  molehills. 

LETTY 
I  'm  so  sorry. 

ELIJAH 
[Morosely.] 

Married  on  crutches !  and  next  mornin' — the  doctor, 
I  presume! 

LETTY 
No,  'Li jah — 

ELIJAH 

No,  I  guess  too !  A  bad  start,  I  call  it.  Well,  seein' 
ye  can't  come  respectable,  I  s'pose  I  Ve  got  to  get  ye 
the  crutches:  but  mind — no  doctor! 

[He  goes  off  along  the  path,  right. 
Letty  crouches  over  her  foot  in  pain. 


CHUCK  15 

From  the  woodchuck's  burrow,  Abel  whistles  low. 
Letty  sits  back,  pale,  and  listens. 
Still  hidden,  Abel  sings  a  snatch:] 

ABEL 

Come  'cross  lots,  come  'cross  lots, 
Says  I  to  Molly,  to  Molly  my  gal ! 

LETTY 

[Starting  half  to  her  feet.] 
Abel! 

ABEL 

[In  a  loud  whisper.] 
Litty ! 

LETTY 
[Staring  about.] 
O  Chuck,  where  be  you? 

[Wriggling  from  the  burrow,  Abel  scrambles  down  the  slope, 
— ardent,  and  covered  with  brown  earth — and  embraces 
her  suddenly.} 

ABEL 
It  's  me! 

[He  kisses  her.] 

LETTY 

[Struggling  feebly.] 
No,  no! 

[She  sinks  back  helpless,  and  moans.] 

ABEL 
Gal,  what  's  hurtin'?    Which  foot  is  it? 

LETTY 
[Faintly.] 
Go  'way,  quick. 


16  CHUCK 

ABEL 

[Feeling  her  ankle.] 
Why,  it  's  all  swole  up. 

[Whipping  out  a  jackknlfe  from  his  pocket,  he  cuts  the  shoe 
laces,  deftly  slips  off  the  shoe,  flings  it  away,  and  draws 
off  the  stocking,  while  Letty  murmurs  faintly:  "Don't, 
please."] 

It  's  cold  water  't  wants.    Wait  a  bit. 
[Taking   the  stocking,   he  dips  it  in   the  pool,   hurries  bock 
with  it  dripping,  and  wraps  it  carefully  round  the  ankle] 
Smart,  doos  it? 

[He  looks  anxiously  in  her  face.    She  nods. 

Looking  quickly  round,  he  sees  a  tin-can  cover,  fills  it  from 

the  brook,  brings  and  holds  it  to  her  mouth.] 
Swig — jest  a  mite! 

[She  drinks.] 

That  's  nice.    Onct  more.     Sun  's  hot. 
[She  drinks  again.] 

LETTY 
[Reviving.] 
Thanks. 

ABEL 
Durn  thanks.    You  won't  never  forgive  me. 

LETTY 
What  for? 

ABEL 
'T  was  me:  I  sawed  it. 

LETTY 
Sawed  what? 

ABEL 

The   foot-bridge.     I  never  reckoned  on   it  bustin' 
through  with  you.    I  calc'lated  on  them. 


CHUCK  17 

LETTY 
Them? 

ABEL 

The  old  man,  and  'Lijah.     With  a  good  ten-foot 
tumble,  I  calc'lated  on  a  wooden  leg  apiece. 

LETTY 
[Painfully.} 
O,  Chuck! 

ABEL 

Born  fool,  me!     Might  a-knowed  Old  Nick  would 
leave  them  in  luck,  and  you  in  the  lurch. 

[At  her  expression,  he  grows  tenderly  anxious.] 
Doos  it  hurt  hard,  Litty,  my  gal  ? 

LETTY 
I  ain't  yourn  no  more,  Abel. 

ABEL 
[Quickly.] 
Why  not? 

LETTY 

[Touching  her  veil.] 
Ain't  you  noticed — this? 

ABEL 

[Starts  up,  flushing.] 
Yare:  I  noticed  it. 

[He  pulls  it  suddenly  from  her  head. 

With  the  action,  her  bright  hair  falls  about  her  shoulders,  and 
she  reaches  toward  him,  with  a  startled  cry.] 

LETTY 
Chuck!    Chuck!     Chuck!     What  ye  doin'? 


18  CHUCK 

ABEL 

[Rolling  the  veil  into  a  ball,  with  both  hands.] 
Now  ye  see  it — 

[He  springs  to  the  woodchuck's  hole  and  stuffs  the  veil  in.] 
— and  now  ye  don't! 
[He  stands  staring  at  her,  as  she  starts  to  her  knees,  with 

outreached  arms.] 
Goda'mighty !    You  're  some  pretty ! 

LETTY 
What  '11  I  do?    'Lijah  's  comin'  back. 

ABEL 

[Coming  to  her.] 
What  of  it!     You  're  my  gal,  ain't  ye? 

LETTY 
You  've  broke  jail :  he  '11  put  ye  back  again. 

ABEL 
[Scornfully.] 

Him  put  me  back — I  guess!     Watch  him  tryin'! 

LETTY 
He  '11  tell  your  father  at  meetin'.    Go  'way,  quick. 

ABEL 

[Striding  down  the  path.] 
The  meetin'  's  goin'  to  be  right  here. 

LETTY 

Come  back !    The  Deacon  said  he  'd  shoot  ye,  if  he 
catched  ye  again  on  the  place. 

ABEL 
That  's  the  Deacon's  long  suit — talk ! 


CHUCK  19 

LETTY 

And  what  '11  I  do  without  my  shoe  and  my  veil ! 
[She  starts  to  limp  toward  the  woodchuck's  hole.] 

ABEL 

[Hurrying  to  her.] 
Stop  your  goin'  on  that  ankle,  Litty. 

LETTY 
[In  despair.] 

I  can  see  him  now.    He  's  runnin'.    Oh,  hide !    Hide, 
quick ! 

ABEL 
If  I  hide  us  both,  will  you  be  my  gal,  and  not  hisn? 

LETTY 

[Throwing  her  arms  about  his  shoulders,  as  he  lifts  her.] 
O,  dear!    O  Chuck!    Hide,  quick! 

ABEL 

[With  a  pr.0tid  smile,  bearing  her  toward  the  brook.] 
My,  your  hair!   It  smells  like  hazel  flowers. 

JiLightly  he  springs  with  her  into  the  bed  of  the  brook,  and 

disappears  behind  the  bushes. 

They  have  hardly  disappeared,  when  Elijah  comes  hurrying 
up  the  path,  tucking  the  ends  of  a  handkerchief  into  his 
sweating  collar.  He  carries  a  pair  of  crutches.  Pausing, 
dumbfounded,  he  searches  about  with  his  eyes.] 

ELIJAH 
[Calling.] 

Letty !    Letitia !    Where  be  ye  ?    Letty ! 

[Suddenly  he  darts  forward  and  picks  up  Lefty's  shoe  from 

the  grass.    He  examines  it  carefully,  pulling  out  s.ome  of 

the  cut  laces.     Then  his  eyes  narrow,  his  face  hardens, 

and  he  flings  the  crutches  on  the  ground,  with  an  ugly 


20  CHUCK 

muttering.  Pocketing  the  shoe,  he  hurries  off  toward  the 
church.  For  an  instant,  Abel's  head  appears  through  the 
bushes,  looking  after  him. 

Then  the  faint  thunder  of  the  organ  rolls  once  more  through 
the  orchard,  and  the  s.ound  of  the  congregation,  singing:} 

THE  CHURCH  VOICES 
All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name, 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 
And  crown  him  Lord  of  all; 

And — crown — him 
Lor — or — ord  of  all! 

[Through  these  more  distant  voices,  the  voice  of  Abel,  close 
by,  sings  from  behind  the  bushes,  mingling  with  the  organ 
tones.} 

THE   VOICE   OF   ABEL 
Come  'cross  lots,  come  'cross  lots, 

Says  I  to  Molly,  to  Molly  my  gal! 
Joe  Pie  weed  is  tall  and  yeller, 
Cider-pears  hang  low  and  meller, 
Stoop  down,  and  scoot  t'  meet  your  feller 
Where  th'  ain't  no  tattletal'. 

O  Joe  Pie,  Joe  Pie, 

If  gallin'  and  gospel  don't  'gree, 
We  '11  give  the  good  folks  the  go-by — 

Molly  my  gal,  and  me! 

THE  CHURCH  VOICES 
And — crown — him 
Lor — or — ord  of  all! 

[The  organ  still  rolls. 

Behind   the   bushes,   the   tin  flute   trills  a  few  notes.     Then 


CHUCK  21 

Abel  r centers,  through  the  hazels,  carrying  Letty,  in 
whose  loosened  hair  he  has  stuck  white  water-lilies  and 
cardinal  flowers.  In  her  hand  she  holds  a  bunch  of  half- 
opened  lily  buds.  Abel  sits  on  the  loiv  bowlder — placing 
Letty,  a  clinging  wisp  of  a  girl,  beside  him.  Both  her  feet 
are  now  bare.] 

ABEL 

[Starting  to  sing  again.] 
Come  'cross  lots — 

LETTY 

[Putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth.] 
Shh ! 

ABEL 

He  's  clean  out  o'  hearin'. 

[Wetting  his  forefinger  in  his  mouth,  he  holds  it  in  the  air.] 
The  wind  's  from  the  meetin'  house. — Mind  where 
you  're  settin'? 

LETTY 

[  With  a  happy  cry.] 
Why,  the  bowlder — it  's  ourn ! 

ABEL 
Rec'lect,  do  ye? 

LETTY 

The  first  time  I  come  'cross  lots,  and  you  met  me 
here :  O,  Chuck ! 

ABEL 

The  moon  come  out;  and  afterwards  we  waded  for 
lilies. 

LETTY 
Lily-time — a  year  ago ! 


22  CHUCK 

ABEL 

And  you  made  head-gear  on  'em:  the  pads  for  me, 
and  the  blooms  for  yourself.    Do  it  agin,  gal,  wont  ye? 

[Picking  up  the  pads,  which  he  dropped  by  the  bowlder.} 
Look,  here  's  mine,  made  a'ready.     You  've  got  the 
star-buds  thar.     Make  yourself  a  genuine  bride-veil, 
will  ye? 

LETTY 
If  you  want  me. 

ABEL 
Do  I? 

[He  caresses  her.    She  begins  to  weave  the  wat?r  lilies  to 
gether.} 

How   's  the  off  hoof  now,  little  heifer?     No  more 
hurt  feelin'? 

LETTY 

Seems  I  ain't  no  feelin'  nowheres,  'ceptin'  here. 
[She  feels  of  her  throat,  and  swallows.} 

ABEL 
And  here? 
[He  kisses  her  on  the  mouth.    She  clings  to  him  impetuously.} 

LETTY 

O  Chuck !    When  he  don't  find  me  at  meetin',  he  '11 
fetch  your  father. 

ABEL 

Not  s'  long  's  the  praisin'  lasts.    Hark:  they  're  off 
agin. 

[He  halloos,  to  the  organ  tones:} 
Come  'cross  lots,  come  'cross  lots, 

Says  I  to  Molly,  and  let  down  the  bars ! 
[The  Voices  of  the  congregation  resume  their  singing,  while 


CHUCK  23 

Abel — swaying   Letty   on    his    knee — carols   his   counter- 
song.} 

THE  CHURCH  VOICES 
Oh,  would  like  yonder  sacred  throng 

We  at  His  feet  might  fall, 
And  join  the  everlasting  song, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

ABEL 

Bull  and  heifer  drink  in  the  meader, 
Boy  and  gal  are  tired  o'  the  treader ; 
Skin  out — when  the  sky  is  growin'  redder — 
And  steal  your  fun  from  the  stars. 

O  Joe  Pie,  Joe  Pie, 

If  pairin'  and  preachin'  don't  gee, 
We  '11  give  the  good  Lord  the  go-by — 

Molly  my  gal,  and  me ! 

THE  CHURCH  VOICES 
— Lor — or — ord  of  all!     — A-men! 

[The  organ  ceases.     There  is  silence,  except  for  the  burring 
of  a  locust.] 

LETTY 

[In  an  awed  whisper.] 
They  Ve  stopped.    He'll  be  tellin'  your  father. 

ABEL 

Not  yit;  the  preachin'  's  goin'  on.    We  Ve  got  the 
hull  sarmon  to  lie  snug  in — snug  's  a  bug  in  a  rug. 

LETTY 
You  guess  we  're  safe  and  sure  here? 


24  CHUCK 

ABEL 
Safe  as  salvation,  and  sure  as  sinnin'. 

[Pie   fondles   her   hair,    looking    happily   in   her   eyes.     She 
returns  his  gaze,  yearningly.} 

LETTY 
Boy — and  you  love  me — after  all? 

ABEL 
Guess  agin. 

[He  kisses  her.} 

LETTY 

I  thought 't  was  all  over.  That  's  why  I  took  'Lijah. 
They  couldn't  a-made  me  done  it  nohow,  if  it  hadn't 
a-been — hadn't  a-been — for  Nan. 

ABEL 

Now  don't  you  fuss  'bout  Nan.  Nan  's  no  sort. 
She  's  jest  a  cider  gal. 

LETTY 
What  's  a  cider  gal? 

ABEL 

Oh,  when  Jack  takes  his  drop,  he  wants  his  Jill.  But 
that  ain't  lovin'. 

LETTY 
I  don't  make  out. 

ABEL 

No;  you  wa'n't  never  drunk:  that  's  why.  I  was 
drunk:  that  's  all. 

LETTY 
[Gently.] 
Wa'n't  that  'nough? 


CHUCK  25 

ABEL 

'Nough  for  the  preachers,  I  reckon.  Ye  ain't  jined 
them  yit,  have  ye? 

LETTY 

No,  Chuck,  no.  But  'Lijah  said  how  you  loved  her, 
and  your  father  said  how — seem'  he  'd  'dopted  me — 
my  child  would  have  to  be  born  reg'lar  into  the  church 
and  the  family,  and  bear  the  name  o'  Dole;  and  so 
'Lijah  wanted  me  for  himself;  and  they  was  both 
a  f  card — 

ABEL 

You  better  bet  they  was!  They  was  both  afeard 
they  wouldn't  have  nobody  to  do  the  chores  for 
nothin' :  no  gal  to  cook  and  scrub  and  clean  and  do  the 
milkin'.  Skeered  o'  the  chores;  it  's  a  family  failin'! 
Born-brother  'Lijah  and  me,  we're  twins  thar!  But 
for  gittin'  rid  oj  chores,  I'd  ruther  steal  a  heifer  than  a 

gal. 

LETTY 

Oh,  that  heifer!  When  your  father  missed  it  from 
the  barn,  and  you  was  arrested — 

ABEL 
[Gleefully.} 
Born-brother  'Lijah,  he  signed  the  warrant! 

LETTY 

[Grave,  and  wide-eyed.} 
No ! — him  ? 

ABEL 

[His  grin  splitting  into  laughter.} 

But  he  bought  the  heifer!  O  Lordy!  He  bought 
back  his  own  heifer  for  five  dollars  more  'n  I  sold  it 


26  CHUCK 

to  Sam  Williams  for;  and  Sam  he  set  up  the  drinks 
for  me,  with  the  balance! 

[Wiping  the  tears  of  his  laughter.} 
O  Lordy!    That  was  w'uth  the  price  of  admittance 
to  jail. 

LETTY 

But  now  you  've  broke  loose  before  trial,  what  '11 
happen  to  ye? 

ABEL 

Never  fret.  Sam  he  's  constable,  and  he  won't  run 
me  in  twice,  if  the  homefolks  don't  pinch  me.  Mean- 
whiles,  with  the  price  of  'Lijah's  heifer,  I  Ve  bought 
me — 

[He  feels  in  his  back  pocket.] 
—look! 

[He  takes  out  two  bits  of  cardboard,  and  holds  them  merrily 
before  her  eyes.] 

LETTY 
What  's  them? 

ABEL 

Two  tickets  to  the  White  Mountains — for  a  weddin' 
spree. 

LETTY 
A  weddin'  spree?    Ourn? 

ABEL 
Wouldn't  be  'Lijah's,  would  it? 

LETTY 

[Gazing  on  the  tickets  with  bewildered  happiness.] 
Us  two:  the  White  Mountains:  O  Chuck! 


CHUCK  27 

ABEL 

That  's  my  signature,  and  it  's  goin'  to  be  yourn 
hencefor'ards,  world  without  end,  et  cet'ry.  Jest 
Chuck— that  's  our  new  callin'-card :  ABEL  CHUCK 
and  LITTY  CHUCK.  The  doorplate  of  old  Dole  is 
chucked!  It 's  our  call  to  arms,  Litty :  Damnation  with 
out  remuneration — if  that  ain't  misery,  make  the  most 
on't !  Chuck  the  home  tea-party  overboard :  Chuck  the 
hull  shootin'  match — chores,  church  and  f am'ly !  Them 
's  our  stars  and  stripes,  and  we  '11  hist  'em  on  that  thar 
Bunker's  Hill. 

[He  points  to  the  woodchuck's  mound.] 

LETTY 

[Examining  more  closely  the  pieces  of  cardboard.] 
But  they  ain't  return-tickets! 

ABEL 
What  's  the  good  o'  returnin'? 

LETTY 
But  where  '11  we  put  up,  when  the  little  'un  comes? 

ABEL 

In  the  deacon's  cow-barn? — I  guess  not!  No,  s'ree! 
The  old  man  called  me  a  varmin  critter:  told  me  to 
pack  and  jine  the  other  chucks.  Wall,  so  I  will,  and 
take  my  mate  along.  I  reckon  we  can  nose  for  our 
livin'  as  good  as  them  other  gipsies.  I  Ve  watched 
'em  sence  I  was  so  high — the  chuckfolks.  Durn  if  I 
don't  think  they  're  happier  'n  men  folks.  They  ain't 
domestic,  nor  they  ain't  wild ;  but  they  live  on  the  fat 
o'  both  stock. 


28  CHUCK 

[Pointing  to  the  burrow.] 

Thar  's  that  sly  old  parson  o'  the  pastur' — old  Chuck- 
the-dirt:  Lordy,  ain't  I  seen  him  mornin's,  with  his 
fur  bib  tucked  under  his  chin,  breakfastin'  on  'Lijah's 
celery  and  parsnips,  when  'Lijah  himself  was  goin' 
empty-bellied,  drivin'  his  garden  stuff  t'  market. 
Chucks  cute?  Now  I  guess!  That  's  why  they're 
cussed  by  the  durn-fool  housefolks.  Housefolks  hoe 
and  harrer;  chuckfolks  feed  and  farrer.  Housefolks 
borrer  trouble;  chuckfolks  lend  it  out  at  interest. 
Housefolks  help  the  devil;  chuckfolks  help  'emselves. 
'Course,  every  beggar  must  bide  his  chanct,  but  I 
guess,  Litty,  you  and  me  are  cute  'nough  to  dig  a  snug 
burrer  somewhars,  and  raise  up  a  litter  on  somebody 
else's  lot,  whar  we  can  share  the  crops  and  dodge  the 
taxes.  Anyhow,  you  're  'cute  'nough  lookin' ! 

[He  caresses  her.  Suddenly,  she  seizes  his  arm,  startled.} 

LETTY 
Listen:  what  's  that? 

ABEL 
[Listening.} 
What  like? 

LETTY 

Like  a  great  bird,  screamin'  far  off,  and  caliin' — 
callin'  to  its  young  uns. 

ABEL 

Like  what  it  is,  Litty — callin'  to  you  and  me.  It  's 
Love-each-other,  gal.  It  's  the  great  mountain  bird 
a-swoopin'  down  on  us.  It  's  the  White  Mountain 
train,  whistlin'  crost  the  valley. — It  '11  be  at  the  Junc 
tion  in  ten  minutes. 


CHUCK  29 

LETTY 
Are  we  goin',  true  'nough? 

ABEL 
Tuck  up  your  hair.    How  's  the  foot? 

LETTY 
[Joyously.] 
Oh,  I  ain't  got  none :  I  'm  flyin'. 

ABEL 
Put  on  your  veil,  lily-bride. 

[He  helps  her  fasten  the  zvoven  lilies  on  her  head,  he  himself 
putting  on  his  former  head-gear  of  lily-pads.] 

LETTY 
But  where  '11  be  the  weddin'.    There  ain't  time. 

ABEL 
Th'  ain't  nothin'  but  time:  ten  minutes. 

LETTY 
But  where — 

ABEL 

Didn't  I  say  the  meetin'  would  be  right  here? 

LETTY 

But  where's  the  proper  minister?  [With  a  bright 
thought.]  They  say,  gipsy  gals  jump  over  a  broom 
to  get  married. 

ABEL 
[Warningly.] 

Shh !     Don't  embarrass  his  worship.     He  's  a  shy 
sort. 
[Mysteriously,  tie  points  to  the  top  of  the  mound,  where  the 


3o  CHUCK 

woodchuck,  partly  visible,  sits  sunning  himself  on  his 
haunches.    Abel  speaks  low.] 

Ain't  he  proper  'nough? 

LETTY 
Him?    What  for? 

ABEL 

Why,  for  the  ceremony.  He  's  the  most  expensive 
prophet  in  the  county :  when  he  jest  stirs  out  and  looks 
at  his  shadder,  the  market-folks  tremble  in  their  boots. 
But  we  ain't  sparin'  expense  to-day,  Litty.  I  've  spoke 
our  license  from  him.  So  now  for  the  ceremony ! 

LETTY 

[Laughing   for   the   first   time— a   happy,   hysterical,   young 
laugh.} 

Ain't  you  funny,  Chuck! 

ABEL 

Ssh!  Not  so  loud.  He  '11  stay  and  jine  us,  if  we 
behave.  He  'predates  my  comin'  without  no  gun. — 
Now,  do  as  I  do. 

[He  tiptoes  forward;  she  follows,  holding  his  hand.] 

LETTY 

Chuck,  ain't  you  funny! 

ABEL 

[With  a  profound  bow  and  boy-like  flourish,  addresses  the 
woodchuck.] 

Reverend  Mr.  Wood — of  the  renowned  family  of 
Chucks — we,  male  and  female,  of  your  honor's  own 
kin  and  communion,  bein'  nat'ral  born  sinners  (and 
glad  of  it),  poachin'  in  your  honor's  parish  (off  and 
on),  for  some  twenty  seasons  (more  or  less),  and 


CHUCK  31 

havin'  published  our  banns  (from  time  to  time), 
in  the  presence  of  chipmunks,  woodcocks  and  water- 
wagtails,  duly  assembled  therefor,  do  now  respect 
fully  petition  your  experienced  worship  to  unite  us,  one 
t'  other,  in  the  blessin's  of  wedlock,  accordin'  to  the 
ancient  rites  and  ceremonies  of  orchard  communities. 
Yours  truly — Amen! 

[Abel  now  turns  about,  and  assumes  a  low,  guttural  tone.] 
Do  you,  boy,  kiss  this  gal  because  ye  love  her? 

[In  his  own  voice.] 
I  do. 

[He  kisses  Letty.     Then  speaks  again,  guttural.} 
Do  you,  gal,  kiss  this  boy,  because  ye  love  him? 
[He  nudges  Letty.} 

LETTY 
[Shyly.] 
I  do. 

[She  kisses  Abel. 
Through  the  orchard  the  church  organ  begins  again  to  roll.] 

ABEL 
[Guttural.] 

Will  you,  boy,  stick  to  this  gal,  so  long  's  ye  love 
her? 

[In  his  own  voice.] 
I  will. 

[He  hugs  Letty;  then  speaks  again,  guttural.] 

Will  you,  gal,  stick  to  this  boy,  so  long  's  ye  love  him  ? 

[He  nudges  Letty  again.] 

LETTY 

[In  a  low  voice.] 
I  Will. 

[She  draws  closer  to  him.] 


32  CHUCK 

ABEL 
[Guttural] 

Then  do  I  now  pronounce  you,  man-chuck  and 
woman-chuck,  mates!  Kiss,  and  be  kind  to  your  little 
chucks. — Amen ! 

ABEL  AND  LETTY 

[Together.] 
Amen ! 

[They  kiss  each  other  on  the  mouth. 
The  woodchuck  vanishes  into  his  burrow. 
From  nearby,  the  Voices  of  the  congregation  sing  to  the  organ. 
As  they  become  aware  of  this,  Abel  and  Letty  look  at  each 
other,  listening] 

THE  CHURCH  VOICES 
Lord,  dismiss  us  with  Thy  blessing; 
Fill  our  hearts  with  joy  and  peace; 
Let  us  each,  thy  love  possessing, 
Triumph  in  redeeming  grace: 
O  refresh  us, 
O  refresh  us, 

Traveling  through  this  wilderness. 
A — men ! 

LETTY 

[Tugging  at  Abel's  arm] 
Run!     Meetin'  's  out:  Run,  Chuck! 
[Hand  in  hand,  they  run  up  the  mound,  at  the  top  of  which 
Letty's  ankle  gives  way,  and  she  sinks  down] 

ABEL 

What— the  hoof  agin,  little  heifer? 

[He  lifts  her  in  his  arms.  Holding  her  a  moment,  they  stand 
gazing  off  toward  the  valley,  where  a  long,  deep  whistle 
sounds] 


CHUCK  33 

LETTY 

It  's  callin'  us,  Chuck:  the  great  bird — Love-each- 
other  ! 

ABEL 
It  's  callin'  us  to  the  hills,  gal,— the  hills ! 

[The  report  of  a  gun  resounds. 
Abel  starts  back,  and  stumbles. 
Letty  screams  and  hides  her  face. 

Holding  her  on  his  left  arm,  Abel  raises  his  right  defiantly, 
and  shouts:] 

Never  skun  me! 

[Waving  toward  the  church.] 
So  long,  Brother  'Lijah:  The  minister  's  waitin'! 

[Putting  his  thumb  to  his  nose,  he  twiddles  his  fingers,  mock 
ingly;  then  springing  with  Letty  down  the  further  slope, 
he  disappears. 

The  shadows  in  the  orchard  are  lengthening. 

A  locust  rasps  in  an  elm. 

Faint  crickets  cheep  in  the  grass. 

An  oriole  flutes  from  an  apple  tree. 

From  his  hole,  the  woodchuck  crawls  cautiously  out,  nosing, 
as  he  does  so,  a  crumpled  and  earth-soiled  veil,  which 
clings  to  his  bristly  hair,  half  clothing  him. 

Pulling  from  his  burrow  an  ear  of  corn,  he  sits  up  on  his 
haunches,  silently  nibbling  it — his  small  eyes  half  shut  in 
the  sunshine. 

Faintly  from  below,  sounds  the  voice  of  Abel,  singing: 

Come  'cross  lots,  come  'cross  lots, 
Says  I  to  Litty,  to  Litty,  my  gal ! 
The  woodchuck  nibbles  on. 


CURTAIN. 


GETTYSBURG 

A  Woodshed  Commentary 


CHARACTERS 


LINK  TADBOURNE,  ox-yoke  maker, 
POLLY,  his  grandniece. 


The  Place  is  country  New  Hampshire,  at  the  present  time. 


GETTYSBURG* 

SCENE: 

A  woodshed,  in  the  ell  of  a  farm  house. 

The  shed  is  open  on  both  sides,  front  and  back,  the  apertures 
being  slightly  arched  at  the  top.  [In  bad  weather,  these 
presumably  may  be  closed  by  big  double  doors,  which  stand 
open  now — swung  back  outward  beyond  sight.]  Thus  the 
nearer  opening  is  the  proscenium  arch  of  the  scene,  under 
which  the  spectator  looks  through  the  shed  to  the  back 
ground — a  grassy  yard,  a  road  with  great  trunks  of  soar 
ing  elms,  and  the  glimpse  of  a  green  hillside.  The  ceiling 
runs  up  into  a  gable  with  large  beams. 

On  the  right,  at  back,  a  door  opens  into  the  shed  from  the 
house  kitchen.  Opposite  it,  a  door  leads  from  the  shed 
into  the  barn.  In  the  foreground,  against  the  right  wall, 
is  a  work-bench.  On  this  are  tools,  a  long,  narrow,  wooden 
box',  and  a  small  oil  stove,  with  steaming  kettle  upon  it. 

Against  the  left  wall,  what  remains  of  the  year's  wood  supply 
is  stacked,  the  uneven  ridges  sloping  to  a  jumble  of  stove- 
wood  and  kindlings  mixed  with  small  chips  on  the  floor, 
which  is  piled  deep  with  mounds  of  crumbling  bark,  chips 
and  wood-dust. 

Not  far  from  this  mounded  pile,  at  right  centre  of  the  scene, 
stands  a  wooden  arm-chair,  in  which  LINK  TADBOURNE, 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sits  drowsing.  Silhouetted  by  the 
sunlight  beyond,  his  sharp-drawn  profile  is  that  of  an  old 
man,  with  white  hair  cropped  close,  and  grey  moustache 
*Copyright,  1912,  by  Percy  MacKaye.  All  rights  reserved. 

37 


38  GETTYSBURG 

of  a  faded  black  hue  at  the  outer  edges.  Between  his 
knees  is  a  stout  thong  of  wood,  whittled  round  by  the 
drawshave  which  his  sleeping  hand  still  holds  in  his  lap. 
Against  the  side  of  his  chair  rests  a  thick  wooden  yoke 
and  collar.  Near  him  is  a  chopping-block. 

In  the  woodshed  there  is  no  sound  or  motion  except  the  hum 
and  floating  steam  from  the  tea-kettle.  Presently  the 
old  man  murmurs  in  his  sleep,  clenching  his  hand.  Slowly 
the  hand  relaxes  again. 

From  the  door,  right,  comes  POLLY — a  sweet-faced  girl  of 
seventeen,  quietly  mature  for  her  age.  She  is  dressed 
simply.  In  one  hand,  she  carries  a  man's  zvide-brimmed 
felt  hat;  over  the  other  arm,  a  blue  coat.  These  she 
brings  toward  Link.  Seeing  him  asleep,  she  begins  to 
tiptoe,  lays  the  coat  and  hat  on  the  chopping-block,  goes 
to  the  bench  and  trims  the  wick  of  the  oil-stove,  under 
the  kettle.  Then  she  returns  and  stands  near  Link,  sur 
veying  the  shed. 

On  closer  scrutiny,  the  jumbled  woodpile  has  evidently  a  cer 
tain  .order  in  its  chaos:  some  of  the  splittings  have  been 
piled  in  irregular  ridges;  in  places,  the  deep  layer  of 
wood-dust  and  chips  has  been  scooped,  and  the  little 
mounds  slope  and  rise  like  miniature  valleys  and  hills.* 

Taking  up  a  hoe,  Polly — with  careful  steps — moves  among 
the  hollows,  placing  and  arranging  sticks  of  kindling, 
scraping  and  smoothing  the  little  mounds  with  the  hoe. 

As  she  does  so,  from  far  away,  a  bugle  sounds. 

*  A  suggestion  for  the  appropriate  arrangement  of  these  mounds 
may  be  found  in  the  map  of  the  battle-field  annexed  to  the  volume  by 
Capt.  R.  K.  Beecham,  entitled  "Gettysburg,"  A.  C.  McClurg,  1911. 


GETTYSBURG  39 

LINK 

[Snapping  his  eyes  wide  open,  sits  «/>.] 
Hello!     Cat-nappin'  was  I,  Polly? 

POLLY 

Just 
a  kitten-nap,  I  guess. 

[Laying  the  hoe  down,  she  approaches.] 
The.  yoke  done? 

LINK 

[Giving  a  final  whittle  to  the  yoke-collar  thong.] 

Thar! 

When  he's  ben  steamed  a  spell,  and  bended  snug, 
I  guess  this  feller  '11  sarve  t'  say  "Gee"  to — • 

[Lifting  the  other  yoke-collar  from  beside  his  chair,  he  holds 
the  whittled  thong  next  to  it,  comparing  the  two  with 
expert  eye.} 

and  "Haw"  to  him.    Beech  every  time,  Sir ;  beech 
or  walnut.    Hang  me  if  I  'd  shake  a  whip 
at  birch,  for  ox-yokes. — Polly,  are  ye  thar? 

POLLY 
Yes,  Uncle  Link. 

LINK 

What's  that  I  used  to  sing  ye? 
"Polly,  put  the  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  the  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  the  kittle  on—" 

[Chuckling.'] 
We'll  give  this  feller  a  dose  of  ox-yoke  tea! 

POLLY 
The  kettle  's  boilin'. 


40  GETTYSBURG 

LINK 
Wall,  then,  steep  him  good. 

[Polly  takes  from  Link  the  collar-thong,  carries  it  to  the 
work-bench,  shoves  it  into  the  narrow  end  of  the  box, 
which  she  then  closes  tight  and  connects — by  a  piece  of 
hose — to  the  spout  of  the  kettle.  At  the  further  end  of 
the  box,  steam  then  emerges  through  a  small  hole.] 

POLLY 
You  're  feelin'  smart  to-day. 

LINK 

Smart  I—Wall,  if  I 

could  git  a  hull  man  to  swap  legs  with  me, 
mebbe  I  'd  arn  my  keep.    But  this  here  settin' 
dead  an'  alive,  without  no  legs,  day  in, 
day  out,  don't  make  an  old  hoss  wuth  his  oats. 

POLLY 

[Cheerfully.] 
I  guess  you  '11  soon  be  walkin'  round. 

LINK 

Not  if 

that  doctor  feller  has  his  say:  He  says 
I  can't  never  go  agin  this  side  o'  Jordan ; 
and  looks  like  he  's  'bout  right. — Nine  months  to- 

morrer, 
Polly,  gal,  sence  I  had  that  stroke. 

POLLY 
[Pointing  to  the  ox-yoke.] 

You  're  fitter 
sittin'  than  most  folks  standin'. 


GETTYSBURG  41 

LINK 
[Briskly.] 

Oh,  they  can't 

keep  my  two  hands  from  makin'  ox-yokes.    That  's 
my  second  natur'  sence  I  was  a  boy. 

[Again  in  the  distance  a  bugle  sounds.     Link  starts.] 

What  's  that? 

POLLY 

Why,  that  's  the  army  veterans 
down  to  the  graveyard.    This  is  Decoration 
mornin':  you  ain't  forgot? 

LINK 

So  't  is,    so  't  is. 
Roger,  your  young  man — ha!     [Chuckling}   he  come 

and  axed  me 

was  I  agoin'  to  the  cemetery. 

"Me?    Don't  I  look  it?"  says  I.    Ha!    "Don't  I  look 
it?" 

POLLY 

He  meant — to  decorate  the  graves. 

LINK 

O'  course; 

but  I  must  take  my  little  laugh.    I  told  him 
I  guessed  I  wa'n't  persent'ble  anyhow, 
my  mustache  and  my  boots  wa'n't  blacked  this  mornin'. 
I  don't  jest  like  t'  talk  about  my  legs. — 
Be  you  a-goin'  to  take  your  young  school  folks, 
Polly? 

POLLY 

Dear  no !    I  told  my  boys  and  girls 
to  march  up  this  way  with  the  band.    I  said 


42  GETTYSBURG 

I  'd  be  a-stayin'  home  and  learnin'  how 

to  keep  school  in  the  woodpile  here  with  you. 

LINK 

{Looking  up  at  her  proudly.} 
Schoolma'am  at  seventeen !     Some  smart,  I  tell  ye ! 

POLLY 

[Caressing  him.} 

School-master,  you,  past  seventy;  that  's  smarter! 
I  tell  'em  I  learn  from  you,  so  's  I  can  teach 
my  young  folks  what  the  study-books  leave  out. 

LINK 
Sure  ye  don't  want  to  jine  the  celebrathr  ? 

POLLY 

No  Sir!    We  're  goin'  to  celebrate  right  here, 
and  you  're  to  teach  me  to  keep  school  some  more. 
[She  holds  ready  for  him  the  blue  coat  and  hat.] 

LINK 

[Looking  up.] 
What  's  thar  ? 

POLLY 

Your  teachin'  rig. 
[She  helps  him  on  with  it.] 

LINK 

The  old  blue  coat!—* 
My,  but  I  'd  like  to  see  the  boys : 

[Gazing  at  the  hat.] 

the  Grand 

Old  Army  Boys!  [Dreamily]  Yes,  we  was  boys:  jest 
boys! 


GETTYSBURG  43 

Polly,  you  tell  your  young  folks,  when  they  study 
the  books,  that  we  was  nothin'  else  but  boys 
jest  fallin'  in  love,  with  best  gals  left  t'  home — 
the  same  as  you;  and  when  the  shot  was  singin', 
we  pulled  their  pictur's  out,  and  prayed  to  them 
'most  more  'n  the  Allmighty. 

[Link  looks  up  suddenly — a  strange  light  in  his  face.    Again, 
to  a  far  strain  of  music,  the  bugle  sounds.] 

Thar  she  blows 
Agin! 

POLLY 
They  're  marchin'  to  the  graves  with  flowers. 

LINK 

My  Godfrey !   't  ain't  no  much  thinkin'  o'  flowers 
and  the  young  folks,  their  faces,  and  the  blue 
line  of  old  fellers  marchin' — it  's  the  music! 
that  old  brass  voice  a-callin' !    Seems  as  though, 
legs  or  no  legs,  I  'd  have  to  up  and  foller 
to  God-knows-whar,  and  holler— holler  back 
to  guns  roarin'  in  the  dark.     No ;  durn  it,  no ! 
I  jest  can't  stan'  the  music. 

POLLY 
[Goes  to  the  work-bench,  where  the  box  is  steaming.] 

Uncle  Link, 
you  want  that  I  should  steam  this  longer? 

LINK 
[Absently.] 

Oh, 
A  kittleful,  a  kittleful. 


44  GETTYSBURG 

POLLY 

[Coming  over  to  him.] 
Now,  then, 

I  'm  ready  for  school. — I  hope  I  've  drawed  the  map 
all  right. 

LINK 

Map?    Oh,  the  map! 
[Surveying  the  woodpile  reminiscently,  he  nods.} 

Yes,  thar  she  be: 
old  Gettysburg! 

POLLY 
I  know  the  places — most. 

LINK 
So,  do  ye  ?    Good,  now :  whar  's  your  marker  ? 

POLLY 
[Taking  up  the  hoe.] 

Here. 
LINK 
Willoughby  Run:  whar  's  that? 

POLLY 

[Points  with  the  hoe  toward  the  left  of  the  woodpile.] 

That 's  farthest  over 
next  the  barn  door. 

LINK 

My,  how  we  fit  the  Johnnies 
thar,  the  fust  mornin' !    Jest  behind  them  willers, 
acrost  the  Run,  that  's  whar  we  captur'd  Archer. 
My,  my! 

POLLY 
Over  there — that  's  Seminary  Ridge. 


GETTYSBURG  45 

[She  points   to   different   heights   and  depressions,   as  Link 
nods  his  approval.] 

Peach  Orchard,  Devil's  Den,  Round  Top,  the  Wheat- 
field— 

LINK 

Lord,  Lord,  the  Wheatfield ! 

POLLY 

[Continuing.] 

Cemetery  Hill, 

Little  Round  Top,  Death  Valley,  and  this  here 
is  Cemetery  Ridge. 

LINK 
[Pointing  to  the  little  flag.] 

And  colors  flyin' ! 

We  kep  'em  flyin7  thar,  too,  all  three  days, 
from  start  to  finish, 

POLLY 
Have  I  learned  'em  right? 

LINK 

A  number  One,  chick !   Wait  a  mite :  Culp's  Hill : 
I  don't  jest  spy  Culp's  Hill. 

POLLY 

There  wa'n't  enough 

kindlin's  to  spare  for  that.     It  ought  to  lay 
east  there,  towards  the  kitchen. 

LINK 

Let  it  go ! 

That  's  whar  us  Yanks  left  our  back  door  ajar 
and  Johnson  stuck  his  foot  in :  kep  it  thar, 
too,  till  he  got  it  squoze  off  by  old  Slocum. 


46  GETTYSBURG 

Let  Gulp's  Hill  lay  for  now. — Lend  me  your  marker. 
[Polly  hands  him  the  hoe.    From  his  chair,  he  reaches  with  it 

and  digs  in  the  chips.] 

Death  Valley  needs  some  scoopin'  deeper.    So : 
smooth  off  them  chips. 

[Polly  does  o0  with  her  foot.] 

You  better  guess  't  was  deep 
as  hell,  that  second  day,  come  sundown. — Here, 

[He  hands  back  the  hoe  to  her.] 
flat  down  the  Wheatfield  yonder. 
[Polly  does  so.] 

Gocla'mighty ! 

that  Wheatfield :  wall,  we  flatted  it  down  flatter 
than  any  pancake  what  you  ever  cooked, 
Polly ;  and  't  wan't  no  maple  syrup  neither 
was  runnin',  slipp'ry  hot  and  slimy  black 
all  over  it,  that  nightfall. 

POLLY 

Here  's  the  road 
to  Emmetsburg. 

LINK 

No,  'tain't :  this  here  's  the  pike 
to  Taneytown.  where  Sykes's  boys  come  sweating 
after  an  all-night  march,  jest  in  the  nick 
to  save  our  second  day.    The  Emmetsburg 
road  's  thar. — Whar  was  I,  'fore  I  fell  cat-nappin'  ? 

POLLY 
At  sunset,  July  second,  Sixty-three. 

LINK 
[Nodding,  reminiscent.] 

The  Bloody  Sundown!     God,  that  crazy  sun: 


GETTYSBURG  47 

she  set  a  dozen  times  that  afternoon, 
red-yeller  as  a  punkin  jacko'lantern, 
rairin'  and  pitchin'  through  the  roarin'  smoke 
till  she  clean  Busted,  like  the  other  bombs, 
behind  the  hills. 

POLLY 

My !    Wa'n't  you  never  scart 
and  wished  you  'd  stayed  t'  home? 

LINK 

Scart  ?    Wall,  I  wonder ! 

Chick,  look  a-thar :  them  little  stripes  and  stars. 
I  heerd  a  feller  onct,  down  to  the  store, — 
a  dressy  mister,  span-new  from  the  city — 
layin'  the  law  down:  "All  this  stars  and  stripes" 
says  he,  "and  red  and  white  and  blue  is  rubbish, 
mere  sentimental  rot,  spread-eagleism!" 
"I  wan't  t'  know !"  says  I.    "In  Sixty-three, 
I  knowed  a  lad,  named  Link.    Onct,  after  sundown 
I  met  him  stumblin' — with  two  dead  men's  muskets 
for  crutches — towards  a  bucket,  full  of  ink — 
water,  they  called  it.    When  he  'd  drunk  a  spell, 
he  tuk  the  rest  to  wash  his  bullet  holes. — 
Wall,  sir,  he  had  a  piece  o'  splintered  stick, 
with  red  and  white  and  blue,  tore  'most  t'  tatters, 
a-danglin'  from  it.    "Be  you  color  sergeant?" 
says  I.    "Not  me,"  says  Link ;  "the  sergeant  's  dead, 
but  when  he  fell,  he  handed  me  this  bit 
o'  rubbish — red  and  white  and  blue."    And  Link 
he  laughed.    "What  be  you  laughin'  for?"  says  I. 
"Oh,  nothin'.    Aint  it  lovely,  though !"  says  Link. 


48  GETTYSBURG 

POLLY 
What  did  the  span-new  mister  say  to  that? 

LINK 

I  didn't  stop  to  listen.    Them  as  never 
heerd  dead  men  callin'  for  the  colors  don't 
guess  what  they  be. 

[Sitting  up  and  blinking  hard.} 

But  this  ain't  keepin'  school ! 

POLLY 
[Quietly.] 
I  guess  I  'm  learnin'  somethin',  Uncle  Link. 

LINK 

The  second  day,  'fore  sunset. 

[He  takes  the  hoe  and  points  with  it.] 

Yen's  the  Wheatfield. 

Behind  it  thar  lies  Longstreet  with  his  rebels. 
Here  be  the  Yanks,  and  Cemetery  Ridge 
behind  'em.     Hancock — he  's  our  general — 
he  's  got  to  hold  the  Ridge,  till  reinforcements 
from  Taneytown.     But  lose  the  Wheatfield,  lose 
the  Ridge,  and  lose  the  Ridge — lose  God-and-all! — 
Lee,  the  old  fox,  he  M  nab  up  Washington, 
Abe  Lincoln  and  the  White  House  in  one  bite ! — 
So  the  Union,  Polly, — me  and  you  and  Roger, 
your  Uncle  Link,  and  Uncle  Sam — is  all 
thar — growin'  in  that  Wheatfield. 

POLLY 

[Smiling  proudly.]  , 

And  they  're  growin' 
still! 


GETTYSBURG  49 

LINK 

Not  the  wheat,  though.    Over  them  stone  walls, 
thar  comes  the  Johnnies,  thick  as  grasshoppers : 
gray  legs  a-jumpin'  through  the  tall  wheat  tops. 
And  now  thar  ain't  no  tops,  thar  ain't  no  wheat, 
thar  ain't  no  lookin' :  jest  blind  feelin'  round 
in  the  black  mud,  and  trampin'  on  boys'  faces, 
and  grapplin'  with  hell-devils,  and  stink  o'  smoke, 
and  stingin'  smother,  and — up  thar  through  the  dark — 
that  crazy  punkin  sun,  like  an  old  moon 
lopsided,  crackin'  her  red  shell  with  thunder! 
[In  the  distance,  a  bugle  sounds,  and  the  low  martial  music 
of  a  brass  band  begins.    Again  Link's  face  twitches,  and 
he  pauses,  listening.     From  this  moment  on,  the  sound 
and  emotion  of  the  brass  music,  slowly  growing  louder, 
permeates  the  scene.] 

POLLY 

Oh !    What  was  God  a-thinkin'  of,  t'  allow 
the  created  world  to  act  that  awful? 

LINK 

Now, 

I  wonder ! — Cast  your  eye  along  this  hoe : 
[He  stirs  the  chips  and  wood-dirt  round  with  the  hoe-iron.] 
Thar  in  that  poked  up  mess  o'  dirt,  you  see 
yon  weeny  chip  of  ox-yoke  ? — That  's  the  boy 
I  spoke  on :  Link,  Link  Tadbourne :  "Chipmunk  Link," 
they  call  him,  'cause  his  legs  is  spry  's  a  squirrel's. — 
Wall,  mebbe  some  good  angel,  with  bright  eyes 
like  yourn,  stood  lookin'  down  on  him  that  day, 
keepin*  the  Devil's  hoe  from  crackin'  him. 

[Patting  her  hand,  which  rests  on  his  hoe.] 
If  so,  I  reckon,  Polly,  it  was  you. 


50  GETTYSBURG 

But  mebbe  jest  Old  Nick,  as  he  sat  hoein* 

them  hills,  and  haulin'  in  the  little  heaps 

o'  squirmin'  critters,  kind  o'  reco'nized 

Link  as  his  livin'  image,  and  so  kep  him 

to  put  in  an  airthly  hell,  whar  thar  ain't  no  legs, 

and  worn-out  devils  sit  froze  in  high-backed  chairs, 

list'nin'  to  bugles — bugles — bugles,  callin'. 

[Link  clutches  the  sides  of  his  chair,  staring.     The  music 
draws  nearer.    Polly  touches  him  soothingly.] 

POLLY 
Don't,  dear ;  they  '11  soon  quit  playin'.    Never  mind  'em. 

LINK 

[Relaxing  under  her  touch.] 

No,  never  mind ;  that  's  right.    It  's  jest  that  onct — 
onct  we  was  boys,  onct  we  was  boys — with  legs. 
But  never  mind.    An  old  boy  ain't  a  bugle. 
Onct,  though,  he  was :  and  all  God's  life  a-snortin' 
outn  his  nostrils,  and  Hell's  mischief  laughin' 
outn  his  eyes,  and  all  the  mornin'  winds 
ablowin'  Glory  Hallelujahs,  like 
brass  music,  from  his  mouth. — But  never  mind ! 
'T  ain't  nothin' :  boys  in  blue  ain't  bugles  now. 
Old  brass  gits  rusty,  and  old  underpinnin' 
gits  rotten,  and  trapped  chipmunks  lose  their  legs. 

[With  smouldering  fire.] 
But  jest  the  same — 

[His  face  convulses  and  he  cries  out,  terribly — straining  in 
his  chair  to  rise.] 

— for  holy  God,  that  band ! 
Why  don't  they  stop  that  band ! 


GETTYSBURG  gl 

POLLY 
[Going.] 

I  '11  run  and  tell  them. 
Sit  quiet,  dear.    I  '11  be  right  back. 

[Glancing  back  anxiously,  Polly  disappears  outside.  The  ap 
proaching  band  begins  to  play  "John  Brown's  Body." 
Link  sits  motionless,  gripping  his  chair.] 

LINK 

Set  quiet! 

Dead  folks  don't  set,  and  livin'  folks  kin  stand, 

and  Link — he  kin  set  quiet. — Goda'mighty, 

how  kin  he  set,  and  them  a-marchin'  thar 

with  old  John  Brown  ?    Lord  God,  you  ain't  forgot 

the  boys,  have  ye  ?  the  boys,  how  they  come  marchin' 

home  to  ye,  live  and  dead,  behind  old  Brown, 

a-singin'  Glory  to  ye !    Jest  look  down : 

thar  's  Gettysburg,  thar  's  Cemetery  Ridge: 

don't  say  ye  disremember  them!      And  thar  's 

the  colors:  Look,  he  's  picked  'em  up — the  sergeant's 

blood  splotched  'em  some — but  thar  they  be,  still  flyin' ! 

Link  done  that :  Link — the  spry  boy,  what  they  call 

Chipmunk:  you  ain't  forgot  his  double-step, 

have  ye? 

[Again  he  cries  out,  beseechingly.] — 

My  God,  why  do  You  keep  on  marchin' 
and  leave  him  settin'  here? 

[To  the  music  outside,  the  voices  of  children  begin  to  sing 
the  words  of  "John  Brown's  Body."  At  the  sound, 
Link's  face  becomes  transformed  with  emotion,  his  body 
shakes  and  his  shoulders  heave  and  straighten.] 

No ! — I — won't — set ! 


52  GETTYSBURG 

[Wresting   himself   mightily,   he  rises  from   his   chair,  and 
stands.} 

Them  are  the  boys  that  marched  to  Kingdom-Come 

ahead  of  us,  but  we  keep  fallin'  in  line. 

Them  voices — Lord,  I  guess  you  Ve  brought  along 

your  Sunday  choir  of  young  angel  folks 

to  help  the  boys  out. 

[Following  the  music  with  swaying  arms.] 

Glory ! — Never  mind 

me  singin' :  you  kin  drown  me  out.    But  I  'm 
goin'  t'  jine  in,  or  bust! 

[Joining  with  the  children's  voices,  he  moves  unconsciously 
along  the  edge  of  the  woodpile.  With  stiff  steps — his  one 
hand  leaning  on  the  hoe,  his  other  reached  as  to  unseen 
hands,  that  draw  him — he  totters  toward  the  sunlight  and 
the  green  lawn,  at  back.  As  he  does  so,  his  thin,  cracked 
voice  takes  up  the  battle-hymn  where  the  children's  are 
singing  it:] 

" — a-mould'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'rin'  in  the  grave, 
But  his  soul  goes — " 

[Suddenly  he  stops,  aware  that  he  is  walking,  and  cries  aloud, 
astounded:} 

Lord,  Lord,  my  legs! 
Whar  did  Ye  git  my  legs  ? 

[Shaking  with  delight,  he  drops  his  hoe,  seises  up  the  little 
flag  from  the  woodpile,  and  waves.it  joyously.] 

I  'm  comin',  boys ! 
Link  's  loose  agin:  Chipmunk  has  sprung  his  trap. 

[With    tottering   gait,    he    climbs    the    little    mound   in   the 
woodpile.] 


GETTYSBURG 


53 


Now,  boys,  three  cheers  for  Cemetery  Ridge! 
Jine  in,  jine  in! 

[Swinging  the  flag.] 

Hooray ! — Hooray ! — Hooray ! 

[Outside,  the  music  grows  louder,  and  the  voices  of  old 
men  and  children  sing  martially  to  the  brass  music. 

With  his  final  cheer,  Link  stumbles  down  from  the  mound, 
brandishes  in  one  hand  his  hat,  in  the  other  the  little  flag, 
and  stumps  off  toward  the  approaching  procession  into 
the  sunlight,  joining  his  old  cracked  voice,  jubilant,  with 
the  singers:] 

«_ry  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
His  truth  is  marchin'  on !" 


CURTAIN. 


THE  ANTICK 
A   Wayside   Sketch 


CHARACTERS 

JONAS  BOUTWELL:  minister. 

JOHN  HALE:  a  young  farmer. 

MRS.  CASSANDRA  WHITE:  a  widow. 

MYRTLE:  her  daughter. 

JULIE  BONHEUR:  a  Canuck  girl. 

Numerous  Anticks*  and  Horribles. 


The  TIME  is  late  in  the  nineteenth  century,  before  automo 
biles:  the  PLACE  —  a  dusty  country  road,  in  Massachu 
setts,  early  in  July. 

*The  customary  spelling  of  this  word  in  Massachusetts,  corresponding 
to  its  pronunciation  there,  is  Antiques.  The  grotesque  participators 
in  the  Bunker  Hill  Day  celebrations  at  Charlestown,  as  weft  as  similar 


Fourth  of  July  celebrators,  are  so  called  —  and  spelled.  Since,  however, 
the  word  does  not,  in  this  connotation  mean  "old,"  or  "ancient,"  but 
is  undoubtedly  a  survival  of  the  term  applied  to  Old  England's 
merry-andrews  or  "anticks,"  [the  Fools  of  the  old  plays],  therefore  the 
older  form  of  spelling  and  pronunciation  has  been  adopted  in  the 
title  and  stage-directions  of  this  play.  In  the  mouths  of  its  characters, 
however,  "antiques"  has  been  used,  in  accordance  with  New  England 


custom. 


56 


THE  ANTICK* 

Along  the  back  of  the  scene  runs  an  old  stone  wall,  well  pre 
served  and  partly  covered  with  three-leafed  ivy;  beyond 
this,  across  a  field  of  standing  grass,  peers  a  little  wood 
of  birches,  popples  and  pitch-pines,  topped  by  the  rounded 
summit  of  a  distant  hill.  Between  the  road  and  the  wall 
grows  a  broad  fringe  of  grass,  through  which — amid  milk 
weed,  daisies  and  Queen  Anne's  lace — a  worn  footpath 
accompanies  the  road.  Another  narrower  grass-fringe 
skirts  the  front  of  the  scene. 

On  the  left  [of  the  spectator],  rise  the  trunks  of  great  sugar- 
maples,  that  form  an  arcade  of  green  boughs,  framing  the 
scene  on  that  side. 

In  the  right  foreground,  the  road  widens  with  a  curve  for  a 
stopping-place  beside  a  stone  watering-trough,  shaded  by 
white  birch  trees  and  wild  poplars. 

Above  it,  is  a  narrow  banking  of  grass.  A  thin  stream  of 
water  slips  from  the  moss  of  a  hollowed  half-log  into 
this  trough,  brimming  its  shallow  basin,  and — glistening 
down  the  broad,  slippery  surface,  across  a  chiselled  motto 
---drips  to  a  runnel  in  the  grass. 

Beside  the  trough,  a  plain  wooden  settle  stands  in  the  shade. 
Across  the  road  from  this,  in  the  right  middle  ground,  two 
flagstone  steps  lead  to  a  little  white  gate,  with  pickets, 
almost  hidden  among  tall  lilac  bushes,  behind  which  is 
just  discernible  the  gable-top  of  a  small,  white  house,  set 
back  from  the  roadside. 

In  the  hot  morning  sunshine,  soft  billowy  cloudcaps  are  begin 
ning  to  trail  slow  shadows  across  the  landscape. 

Remote  and  intermittent,  a  sound  like  subdued  thunder  re 
curs.  In  the  intervals,  from  beyond  the  maples  outside, 
the  occasional  tink-tink  of  a  cow-bell  comes  from  close 
by.  Probably,  a  cow,  unseen,  is  cropping  by  the  wayside. 
•Copyright,  1912,  by  Percy  MacKaye.  All  rights  reserved. 

57 


58  THE    ANTICK 

On  the  right,  an  odd  figure  in  black  is  trudging  slowly,  and 
with  many  standstills,  in  the  direction  of  the  bell.  It  is 
a  spare,  slightly  stooped  old  man,  clad  in  an  ancient,  long- 
tailed  coat  and  rumpled  trousers.  Out  of  doors,  even 
when  he  is  driving  his  cow  to  pasture,  Minister  JONAS 
BOUTWELL  always  wears  his  silk  "stovepipe"  hat  pulled 
amply  down  on  the  iron-grey  curls,  that  straggle  about 
his  cars.  His  deep-cut  vest  is  habitually  half  buttoned, 
and  just  now  his  not-too-white  necktie  dangles,  half  tied, 
from  his  turn-over  collar. 

His  gait  is  rambling,  and  at  times  he  stubs  a  toe  in  the  dust, 
or  against  a  grass  rut,  for  his  sharp,  dancing  eyes  are 
glued  to  the  pages  of  a  hook.  This  he  holds  close  to  his 
spectacles,  gripped  in  both  hands,  from  one  of  which  a 
knotted  walking-stick  points  at  an  angle  skyward. 

As  he  reads,  his  lips  mutter  half  audibly,  his  bushy  eyebrows 
are  raised  and  contorted,  and  his  face  glasses  like  a  child's 
the  emotions  roused  by  his  reading. 

While  he  is  doing  thus,  JOHN  HALE  enters — left — along  the 
road,  als.o  reading  from  a  book,  silently  to  himself. 
John  is  a  strong-knit  young  man  of  middle  height,  with 
light,  waving  hair,  wide  brow  and  earnest  eyes.  He  is 
dressed  in  farming  clothes.  His  manner  is  quiet,  repress 
ed,  but  sensitive  and  conscious  of  personal  power.  He 
walks  leisurely,  as  wholly  absorbed  in  his  own  volume  as 
the  minister  with  his;  so  that  he  ahnost  stumbles  against 
the  old  man,  just  as  Jonas,  inverting  his  stick,  makes  a 
flourish,  that  knocks  the  volume  out  of  the  hands  of  John, 
who  looks  up  astonished.} 


THE    ANTICK  59 

JOHN 
[Exclaiming.] 
Well,  now ! — 

[Picking  up  his  own  volume  from  the  road,  John  blows  upon  it 
carefully,  wiping  it  with  his  sleeve.] 

Poor  old  Emerson ! 

JONAS 

How  's  that?  Ralph  Waldo  in  the  dust?  Never, 
Sir! 

[Pointing  his  stick  upward.] 

He  sits  immortal  in  the  empyrean ! 

[Taking  the  book  from  John  and  turning  its  pages.] 

"Nature/'  "Idealism,"  "Spirit": — chewing  your  old 
Concord  cud,  John! — That  's  good,  that  's  good:  but 
cud  's  not  clover,  boy.  Why  don't  you  kick  up  your 
heels,  on  the  Glorious  Fourth? 

[The  muffled  thunder  recurs.] 

Hear  that!  Don't  that  make  ye  feel  your  gunpowder 
oats? 

JOHN 

[Obliviously  intent  on  the  minister's  volume.] 
Old  plays? 

JONAS 

[Fondling  it.] 

Yes,  yes: — an  old  failing,  an  old  failing!  The 
Muse,  the  Muse  is  my  psalm  and  my  commandment! 
Therefore  do  I  *play  hookie,  John,  from  my  parish 


6o  THE    ANTICK 

widows,  and  woo  the  Eternal  Feminine  in  Elizabethan 
pastures.  You  play  hookie  too,  John:  Where  's  your 
Faithful,  eh?  where  's  yours?  Have  you  wooed  and 
won  yet? 

A  SHRILL  VOICE 

[From  behind  the  lilacs.] 

Jonas!    Jonas  Boutwell!    Your  cow  's  a-stretchin' 
over  my  wall  and  eatin'  of  my  timothy-grass. 

JOHN 
[Laconically.] 
Yes,  sir;  I  *ve  wooed  and  won. 

JONAS 
[Blankly.] 

Not — in  there? 

[John  nods.] 

THE  VOICE 
Drive  the  critter  off! 

JONAS 

[Bowing  to  the  lilacs.] 
Madam,  your  obedient  servant! 

[Beckoning  solemnly  with  his  walking-stick,  he  speaks  in  a 
higher  key.] 

Bos,  bos,  co',  bossie !    Ga  'lang,  Doll ! 

[Searching  for  something  to  throw,  he  takes  from  his  pocket 
an  old  glove,  and  flings  it  toward  the  maples,  where  it 
falls  short.] 

Clover  'cross  the  way,  Dollie.    Try  clover! 


THE    ANTICK  6l 

THE  VOICE 

Patience'  sake! 

[Behind  the  bushes,  a  door  bangs  audibly.] 

JONAS 
[Turns  preternaturally  to  John.] 

Not— her! 

.  JOHN 

Her  girl. 

JONAS 

Worse  yet:  The  offspring  of  Cassandra? 

JOHN 
Myrtle  White. 

JONAS 
Forbid  it,  angels! 

JOHN 
[Wearily.] 

I  presume  we  '11  be  coming  up  soon  to  get  you  to 
join  us. 

JONAS 

Me!  Me  minister  to  this  dilution  of  man!  Why, 
the  mother  is  vinegar  and  the  daughter  is  whey.  The 
butter  soured  when  she  was  churned. 

JOHN 

[Wryly.] 

Well,  she  's  real  old  Yankee  stock.— And 
we're  engaged. 


62  THE    ANTICK 

JONAS 

Even  so:  The  way  of  the  young  man  is  beset  with 
girlhood ! 

JOHN 

Seems  to  be  the  only  way  out.  I  'm  twenty-five,  Sir. 
College — that  's  over.  Father  [biting  his  lip} — he's 
gone.  Mother  's  laid  up  and  needs  help:  some  one  to 
keep  round  with  her,  when  I  'm  choring.  So  it  's  up 
to  me  to  marry  for  her  sake:  to  "settle  down"  and 
plough  and  milk  and  sow — 

JONAS 

Yea,  even  so,  John  Hale ! — to  sow  live  seed  in  these 
infecund  acres!  The  seed  of  Plymouth  is  scattered 
inland:  it  teems  in  the  harvests  of  the  West. 
But  the  old  home  lots  are  void  and  run  to  sorrel ;  the 
old  home  ells  are  stale  with  the  smell  of  left-overs ;  the 
old  home  breed  is  mash  in  the  cider-press,  and  their 
sap  is  vinegar. 

JOHN 

[With  a  stifled  glow.] 

Good  God,  Sir,  don't  I  know  it!  Don't  you  think 
I've  wanted  to  light  out,  too,  for  Alaska  or  Hawaii. 
But  here  's  Mother,  left  alone,  rooted  to  the  old  place 
— wants  to  die  here.  'T  isn't  pick  and  choose.  I  've 
looked  through  the  other  left-overs.  Myrtle  is  the  only 
young  girl — that  is,  good  girl — in  town. 

JONAS 

Good!  Good?    Lord,  what  is  good  in  Thy  sight? 
"My  beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  his, 
He  feedeth  his  flock  among  the  lilies.   .    .    . 


THE    ANTICK  63 

Behold  thou  art  fair,  my  love, 
Behold  thou  art  fair : 
Thine  eyes  are  as  doves." 

JOHN 

[Turning  away.] 

Don't— Don't ! 

JONAS 

"O  daughters  of  Jerusalem,  I  am  sick  with  love, 
For  my  head  is  filled  with  dew.     .     .     . 
I  am  my  beloved's  and  he  is  mine. 
I  would  kiss  thee,  yea,  and  none  would  despise  me; 
I  would  lead  thee  and  bring  thee  into  my  mother's 
house." 

JOHN 

Don't,  Sir — for  God's  sake!  I  can't  stand  it. 

[He  goes  to   the  watering  trough,  resting  his  head  on  the 
stone.] 

JONAS 

Don't— for  God's  sake!  Don't  stand  it!  That  's 
what  ails  us  all.  The  Lord  is  the  tempter  of  life,  but 
our  virtues  scorn  his  allurements.  He  tempts  us  with 
the  lute  strings  of  Joy,  he  beckons  us  with  the  bent  bow 
of  Cupid,  he  despatches  his  servant  Satan  to  beguile 
us  with  beauty  to  his  pasturage:  "He  feedeth  his  flock 
among  the  lilies." 

JOHN 

Stop,  stop!    You  're  playing  the  devil  with  me. 

JONAS 
The  devil  plays  Diogenes  with  me,  John.     Up  and 


64  THE    AN  TICK 

down,  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath,  searching  for  true 
sinners — and  nary  a  catch !  And  so  I  crawl  back  into 
my  barrel  of  sermons. — Out  on  us — all !  There  are  no 
more  sinners  in  New  England:  They  're  all  gone  to 
heaven — or  New  York. 

JOHN 
Kere  's  one. 

JONAS 

[Brightening.} 

John!    May  I  thank  God  for  ye? 

JOHN 

You  know  my  temptation.     Well,  I  'm  done  with 
that  now — for  always.    I  've  put  it  behind  me. 

JONAS 

Retro   me,  Sathanas!     Lord,  but   it   sounds   sweet 
again!    Get  thee  behind  me! 

[Abruptly,  with  tender  command.} 

Where  is  she? 

JOHN 

That's  over,  I  tell  you.    I  Ve  got  to  marry  Myrtle. 
It  's  my  duty. 

JONAS 

[Peering  above  his  spectacles,  keenly.} 
Where  's  Julie? 

[John  makes  no  answer,  but  gnaws  the  edge  of  his  finger.} 
Julie  Bonheur? 


THE    ANTICK  65 

JOHN 

[With  repression.] 
I  Ve  not  seen  her — for  a  week. 

JONAS 

In  seven  days  made  He  the  world,  and  the  firma 
ment  thereof  with  fire,  and  man,  and  woman. 

JOHN 
She  's  gone  out  of  my  life. 

JONAS 
Where  to? 

JOHN 
To  the  bad! 

JONAS 

[Twinkling.] 
Not  to  Boston ! 

JOHN 
[Tragically.] 

It 's  no  joke.    She—she  's  untrue.    I  Ve  broken  with 
her. 

JONAS 

[With  gentle  sternness] 
You  Ve  broken  her,  you  mean,  John. 

JOHN 
That  's  past  mending. 

JONAS 
Past  marrying? 


66  THE    ANTICK 

JOHN 
[Flushing.] 

What — now!  I  tell  you,  she  's  gone  with  another — 
a  Canuck:  [bitterly]  one  of  her  own  kind!  God,  I 
could  have  killed  her — and  myself. 

JONAS 

Louis  Fourteenth  was  King  of  Canucks!  Don't  I 
remember  a  song? 

"I  am  king  with  a  kiss, 

Though  my  crown  be  a  crux: 
For  the  queen  of  my  bliss 
Is  the  queen  of  Canucks !" 

The  poet,  he  was  one  Jokn  Hale;  wasn't  he? 

JOHN 
You  might  spare  me — digging  up  graves.    Goodbye. 

JONAS 

[Holding  him,  affectionately,] 
Now,  now,  John :  you  must  tell  me ! 

JOHN 

[Dogged  and  dejected.] 
What? 

JONAS 
Aren't  you,  come  now,  just  a  mite — fool  jealous? 

JOHN 

[Darkly.] 
No! 


THE    ANTICK  67 

JONAS 

[Cheerfully.} 
Well,  then,  tell  me. 

JOHN 
[Swallowing  for  a  moment.] 

Why,  then — first,  it  was  Mother.  She  wouldn't  have 
her,  on  any  grounds :  said  I  ought  to  stick  to  my  own 
stock ;  all  that.  I  never  saw  her  quite  so :  she  actually 
cursed  Julie. 

JONAS 

Hm !    No  wonder  neither !    What  did  you  do  ? 

JOHN 
I  told  Julie. 

JONAS 

So!     What  did  she  do? 

JOHN 
[Pauses  a  moment;  then  with  bitterness.] 

She  laughed! 

JONAS 

Hm !    No  wonder  neither !    What  then  ? 
JOHN 

Then  she  got  drunk.  That  Canuck  fellow,  Pierre, 
was  with  her.  Both  got  drunk.  What  could  I  expect 
of  a  saloon  girl,  with  a  mill-hand!  [Passionately.] 
Ah,  but  I  thought  she  was  different,  and  I  loved  her! 

JONAS 
[Ruminating.] 
Wine,  eh? 


68  THE    ANTICK 

JOHN 
Yes,  they  all  drink  it — her  folks. 

JONAS 
Our  folks  prefer  rum — or  wood  alcohol! 

JOHN 

[Hoarsely,  standing  away.] 

You  are  speaking  of  my  father  ?    Is  this  a  time  for — 
JONAS 

For  the  truth?  May  be  truth  has  its  time,  John.  I 
loved  your  father.  He  was  bookish,  like  me — and 
you.  We  half-alivers  run  to  books — or  Bedlam.  Your 
father  run  to  both. 

[With  gentle  firmness.] 

Do  you  want  to  know  why  he  drunk  it — and  hanged 
himself  in  the  barn? 

JOHN 

[Flinching,  pale,  but  returning  his  gaze.} 

Why? 

JONAS 

You  're  sure-enough  set,  eh,  to  marry  Myrtle? 

JOHN 
Yes. 

JONAS 

[Quietly,  with  deep  feeling.} 
He  loved — a  Canuck  girl. 

JOHN 
My  father?    [Quivering.}   Before — he  married? 


THE    ANTICK  69 

JONAS 
Yes — and  after. 

JOHN 

[Murmurs.] 
After! 

[From  away  left,  a  distant  clamor  begins:  the  beat  of  a  drum, 
the  faint  squealing  of  fifes,  shouting  and  the  blowing  of 
horns.  Gradually  the  sounds  grow  louder.] 

JONAS 

She  was  a  wild,  healthy  thing,  all  alive — like  your 
Julie.     And  looks! — well,  the  fair  Shulamite  wasn't 
fairer  to  Solomon.     So  he  was  about  to  take  her  in 
marriage,  but  about  then,  your  grandfather  Hale — 
[Jonas  gives  a  queer  smile.} 

JOHN 
[Faintly.] 
No!     Not—? 

JONAS 

Yes,  sir;  yes!  "Stick  to  your  own  stock,"  says  he. 
"Farmers  we  may  be  and  country  folks,  but  Adamses 
we  are,  and  Hales,  and  Bradfords :  The  breed  of  Salem 
and  Bunker  Hill  crossed  with  Canucks?  Shades  of 
the  Mayflower  forefend! — And  they  forefended! 
Crossbreeding  isn't  their  legacy.  Your  father  was 
shamed — shamed  into  it,  John;  and  so  he  deserted 
your  mother. 

JOHN 

My  mother  ?    The  Canuck — you  mean. 

JONAS 
What  did  I  say? 


70  THE    AN  TICK 

JOHN 

No   matter.     How    long   after — did   he   marry   my 
mother  ? 

JONAS 

[With  a  far-off  stare.] 
He  never  married  her. 

JOHN 
[Starting.] 
What! — Oh,  you  mean  the  Canuck  again. 

JONAS 
[Slowly.] 
Yes,  the  Canuck  I  mean.    But  he  raised  her  child. 

JOHN 

[Drawing  back.] 
Not — not  a  son? 

JONAS 
You  have  no  brother,  nor  sister,  John. 

JOHN 

[Darkly.] 
You  lie. 

JONAS 

[Quietly.] 
Have  you? 

JOHN 
Your  insinuation — that !    You  lie  in  that. 

JONAS 
Do  I  lie  to  you,  John, — ever? 


THE    ANTICK  71 

JOHN 

[As  the  truth  dawns  painfully.] 
No. 

[The  old  man  looks  at  him  with  tenderness,  makes  an  awk 
ward  motion  of  caress — then  refrains.  John  sinks  down 
on  the  sctiie,  shaken,  hiding  his  face.  His  words  are 
hardly  audible.] 

Canuck! — a  Canuck! 

JONAS 

[Looks  about  helplessly,  sees  an  iron  dipper  by  the  trough, 
dips  it  and  hands  it  to  John.] 

Have  some  water? 

[John  motions  it  away.] 
He  built  this  trough — your  father  did. 

[Pointing  to  the  words  cut  in  the  stone.} 
He  made  the  motto  there. 

[Coughing.} 
I  'm  thirsty. 

[He  drinks  from  the  dipper  with  deep  breaths,  then  drops  it, 
absently,  under  a  bush,  gazing  at  the  stanza  in  the  stone.] 

Ha,  Lord  of  Waysides!    To  thirst — and  mightily:  to 
drink — and  lustily! 

[Wiping   his  mouth  with  his  hand.] 
Ha,  't  is  good ! 

[He  looks  off  along  the  road. 

The  fifes  and  horns   have  ceased,   but  a  sudden  hubbub  of 

shouts  and  the  violent  ringing  of  a  cow-bell  are  heard 

close  by.] 


72  THE    ANTICK 

Creation !    The  imps  have  taken  the  bell  off  Doll. 
[He  grasps  his  stick,  and  starts  away.] 

JOHN 

[Getting  to  his  feet.] 
What  's  that  coming? 

JONAS 

Good  omens,  John,  good  omens:  angels  of  the 
Fourth — joy-birds  of  revolution — gargoyles,  gargoyles, 
bless  'em!  We've  drove  'em  from  the  doors  of  the 
Lord's  house,  but  the  Devil  has  gathered  'em  in  his 
highways  to  dance  before  him  with  handsprings,  to 
laugh  unto  the  Lord,  and  stick  their  tongues  out  for 

joy- 

[Looking  off  scene,  delightedly.] 

Look  at  'em,  John,  look!  They  Ve  nabbed  Doll. 
They  're  riding  the  cow,  and  a  goat  at  her  heels ! 

[Shouting,  and  waving  his  stick.] 

Independence  Day !    God  save  the  Antiques  and  Hor 
ribles  ! 

JOHN 

[Grimly.] 

The  watchdogs  of  Seventy-six  turned  to  yelping 
jackalls!  Ah! 

[He  stands  still;  his  voice  sounds  broken.] 
I — I  'm  one  of  them. 

[He  sinks  down  again  by  the  trough.] 
What  's  left  to  me  now? 


THE    ANTICK  73 

JONAS 

What's  left  to  ye  ?    Love,  and  the  king's  highway ! 
"Stick  to  your  own  stock" — King  of  Canucks ! 

[Hailing  the  crowd  outside.} 
Independence,  boys  and  girls! 

[Gesticulating  with  his  tall  hat  and  stick,  he  goes  off.  The 
noise  outside  Increases,  then  subsides.  With  pressed 
hands,  John  shuts  the  sounds  from  his  ears.  So  for  a 
moment  he  sits,  crouched  over  and  still.  Then  he  raises 
his  eyes  from  the  settle  to  the  stone  lettering  on  the 
trough,  and  reads,  in  a  dull  tone:] 

Lord  of  Waysides,  life  is  Thine. 
Turn  this  water  to  Thy  wine! 
Thirsting  brute  and  man  and  swine 
All  are  brothers  at  Thy  shrine. 

[Murmuring.] 
"Man  and  swine     .      ." 

[Rising.] 

God,  then, — so  be  it ! 

[He  stares  in  the  water. 

The  gate  in  the  lilacs  opens,  and  a  wry-faced  woman,  fol 
lowed  by  a  faded  girl,  comes  down  the  stone  flags  to  the 
road.  The  woman  is  prematurely  wrinkled;  her  tarnished 
red  hair  Is  turning  gray.  She  Is  scrawny,  and  her  clothes 
— crass  In  color — hang  shapeless.  When  she  speaks  she 
squints.  Just  now,  she  cranes  her  neck — turkey-like — 
toward  the  noises  down  the  road. 

The  girl,  who  dogs  her  with  dull  placidity,  has  a  pretty,  color 
less  face,  with  regular  features.  Her  lips,  however,  never 
close,  and  her  eyebrows  are  permanently  raised  In  mean- 
uirjcss  Inquiry.  Her  brownish  hair  has  been  painfully 


74 


THE    ANTICK 


curled  with  tasteless  art.  Whatever  youthful  charm  her 
girlish  f.orm  may  have  is  hid  by  her  ftissy  clothes — a 
magenta  dress,  with  yellow  sp.ots  and  infinite  tucks.  By 
her  manner  of  walking  and  standing,  the  dress  is  evi 
dently  her  "best,"  preserved  for  Sundays  and  holidays. 

MRS.  CASSANDRA  WHITE  and  her  daughter  MYRTLE  pause  in  the 
road,  the  former  listening  and  peering,  the  latter  sidling 
and  picking  grass-tops. 

As  Mrs.  White  speaks,  John  starts  at  her  voice,  seises  his 
book  and  opens  it.  The  movement  attratts  the  girl's 
attention.] 

MRS.  WHITE 

Did  you  ever! — Myrtle,  speak  up:  did  you  ever! 
MYRTLE 

[Chewing  a  grass-bladf,] 

No,  Ma. 

MRS.  WHITE 
7  never! 

[Shrilly.] 

" Independence,  boys  and  girls!"  Him  a  minister, 
goin'  on  seventy!  There!  he  's  joinin'  in  with  'em. 
There  's  two  a-ridin'  the  cow.  And  I  more  'n  believe 
old  Jonas  is  forgot  to  milk  her,  by  her  looks. — Ain't 
you  watchin'?  Drop  it! 

MYRTLE 
[Watching  J.ohn,  drops  the  grass-blade.] 

Yes,  Ma. 

MRS.  WHITE 

And  if  there  ain't  a  goat !    What  the  land  's  on  the 
back  of  it :  male  or  female  ? 


THE    ANTICK  75 

MYRTLE 

[Picking  a  burr  off  her  skirt.] 

On  the  goat? 

MRS.  WHITE 

Why,  she  's  just  scand'lous,  if  she  's  womanfolks: 
Rigged  out  in  sky-blue  jumpers,  and  a  white  sugar- 
loaf  hat,  and  red  foot-gear — scarlet  red!  Mebbe  she 
ain't  a  gal,  just  a  long-haired  feller,  got  one  o'  them 
halfway  wigs  on.  Guess  so? 

[Raising  her  voice.} 
Guess  so? 

MYRTLE 

[Carefully  disarranging  a  curl.} 

Guess  likely. 

MRS.  WHITE 

What  be  we  comin'  to  next?  Live  stock  at  town 
meetin',  I  presume !  These  Antiques  and  Horribles  is 
just  shameful:  spoil  my  Fourth  every  season,  livin' 
right  near  the  road  as  we  do. 

[Turning,  catches  sight  of  John.} 
Well,  if  there  ain't— 

MYRTLE 

[Carelessly.} 
Yes,  I  seen  him  before. 

MRS.  WHITE 

You  seen  him!  Well,  he  ain't  got  eyes  for  you  nor 
rue,  seems. 


;6  THE    ANTICK 

[Approaching  John  with  conscious  ceremony  and  her  choicest 
intonation.] 

Good  morning! 

JOHN 

[Starting  up.] 

Oh!     Mrs. — Oh,  good  morning. 
MRS.  WHITE 

Interrupting  be  I? 

JOHN 

Not  at  all;  I  was  just — How  d'  do,  Myrtle. 

MYRTLE 
[Smirking.] 

How  d'  do. — I  seen  you  first. 
MRS.  WHITE 

Readin'  up  a  speech  for  town-hall  meetin',  I  s'  pose : 
somethin'  in  the  patriotic? 

JOHN 
Why,  no;  I  shan't  speak  this  Fourth. 

MRS.  WHITE 

Want  t'  know !  More  in  the  love  line,  mebbe. 
[Wrinkling  a  smile,  and  wagging  her  head  toward  Myrtle.] 
Oh,  quite  t'  be  expected! 

[John  is  helpless,  and  looks  it.] 
Chores  done  up  for  the  mornin'? 


THE    ANTICK  77 

JOHN 
Yes ;  I  came  this  way  to  see  Myrtle — 

MRS.  WHITE 
Now,  there !  To  help  fill  them  lamps ! 

JOHN 
Why, — I  was  waiting — 

MRS.  WHITE 
So  was  we — for  you.    Wa'n't  we,  Myrtle? 

MYRTLE 
Yes,  Ma. 

MRS.  WHITE 

You  by  the  hoss-trough — us  in  the  house!  Don't 
it  beat  all? 

[John  stammers  and  stops.] 

Mother  ailin'  's  usual? 

JOHN 
Thanks ;  about  the  same. 

MRS.  WHITE 

Yes,  would  be  so.  It  '11  turn  out  to  be  dropsy,  cer 
tain.  I  tell  her,  though,  she  lazes  too  much:  needs  a 
right  smart  girl  round  the  house.  Guess  she  '11  be 
more  'n  glad  o'  mine;  won't  she,  Myrtle? 


Ma! 


MYRTLE 
[Sidling.] 


78  THE    ANTICK 

MRS.  WHITE 

What  /  '11  do  without  her — well,  I  ain't  say  in'.  Meb- 
be  I  '11  stick  right  by  her — and  you,  John.  Nothin' 
just  like  a  mother,  let  alone  bein'  a  widder.  Neither 
one  don't  al'ays  last,  but  I  guess  I  'm  warranted. 
'Course,  when  yours  doos  go — well,  come  in,  come 
right  in,  and  you  can  help  Myrtle  fill  them  lamps. 
There  's  one  savin'  grace  in  this  keepin '-company :  if 
it  doos  spend  kerosene,  nights,  it  spares  trouble  draw- 
in'  of  it,  mornin's. 

JOHN 

[Folloiving  her,  lugubrious] 
Kerosene,  yes. 

MRS.  WHITE 

[Sniggering  amiably.] 

Then,  too,  courtin'  wants  a  quiet  corner  to  sprout, 
and  there  's  such  a  racket  here  in  the  road.  Them 
mis'ble  Canucks  and  millfolks,  they  're  'nough  to  drive 
all  decent  livers  from  town.  Land,  here  they  come, 
the  hull  rum  hullabaloo!  [Shrilly]  Come  outn  that 
dust,  Myrtle,  with  your  bran-best  stockin's  on ! 

MYRTLE 
Ma,  sakes! 

[She  is  hustled  by  Mrs.  White  up  the  flagstone,  where  they 
wait  for  John,  who  follows  slozvly,  peering  toward  the 
III  tie  crowd,  that  enters  noisily. 

First  comes  a  troop  of  ragtag  youngsters  in  regimentals, 
headed  by  a  drum-major  boy,  officialized  by  a  draggled 
rooster's  plume  sewed  in  a  rimless  straw  hat.  He  beats 
time  by  twirling  in  his  hand,  and  tossing  in  the  air,  a  long 


THE   'ANTICK 


79 


tin  horn,  between  the  whirlings  of  which  he  toots, 
pirhoucttes,  and  turns  handsprings  in  the  dust.  His  corps 
consists  of  three  fifers,  a  drummer,  two  clappers  of  bones 
and  a  milk  pan-beater,  attended  by  two  bobtail  bearers 
of  the  national  colors.  These  pass  to  the  watering  place, 
where  they  stand  in  a  group,  and  continue  to  play  sundry 
patriotic  airs  vaguely  recognizable  as  "Yankee  Doodle," 
"Dixie,"  "America,"  etc.  They  are  followed,  strag 
gling,  by  a  rough,  motley  gang  of  young  folk,  male 
and  female,  aging  from  childhood  to  twenty  odd — shout 
ing,  laughing  and  horn-tooting.  These  are  all  dressed  in 
masquerade  garb  of  many  shapes,  colors  and  inventions. 
The  faces  of  some  are  painted,  or  smooched  with  char 
coal;  others  wear  masks,  false  noses  and  beards. 

In  their  midst,  three  figures — that  enter  toward  the  end  of  the 
rabble — are  at  once  conspicuous;  the  old  Minister — tugged, 
coat-tail  and  sleeve,  by  small  Anticks  and  Horribles — 
marching,  with  uncovered  head  and  saluting  hat,  by  the 
side  of  a  goat,  astride  of  which  rides  a  lithe  ANTICK  FIG 
URE,  clad  in  an  improvised  Pierrot-like  costume  of  briglit 
blue,  with  cone-shaped  hat  of  white  paper,  and  pointed 
boots  of  scarlet.  Wavy  black  hair,  cut  round,  falls  to  the 
nape  of  the  blue  blouse.  The  goat,  decked — horns  and  tail 
— with  American  streamers,  marches  haltingly,  pushed  and 
led  by  grinning  attendants.  On  its  head  ox-eyed  daisies 
make  a  crown,  and  about  his  legs  and  body — a  black  and 
yelloiv  harness. 

Reaching  the  centre  of  the  scene,  the  beast  balks  utterly,  stand 
ing  with  stiff  legs  planted,  while  the  whole  route  pauses 
with  good-natured  jeers,  and  the  drum-corps  stops  playing. 

At  this,  the  Antick  rider,  radiant  with  charming  laughter, 
shakes  aloft  in  one  hand  a  cow-bell,  and  cries  aloud,  with 
a  piquante  tinge  of  French  accent:] 

THE   ANTICK 
A  drink !    A  drink  for  his  Majesty ! 

[Winking  at  Jonas.] 
—Ain't  it? 


8o  THE    ANTICK 

A  HORRIBLE 
Who? — old  Stovepipe? 

ANOTHER 
Nixy :  the  goat ! 

[Shouts  of  "Billy,  Billy!"  "Boose  him  at  the  trough!"  "He's 

dry"  etc. 
By  the  roadside,  J.ohn  pushes  back  among  the  lilac  bushes, 

where  he  stares,  half-hidden,  at  the  Antick.     Only  the 

minister,  seeking  with  a  quick  glance,  catches  sight  of 

him  there.] 

JONAS 

[Raising  his  voice.] 
Boys  and  girls,  hark  to  your  Independence  Bell ! 

[Shouts  of  "Hooray!"  "Speech,  speech!"] 

[As  Jonas  speaks,  they  gather  round  him,  near  the  trough, 
where  numbers  of  them  drink  from  the  basin  and  the 
log-spout.] 

Friends,  Antiques  and  Horribles ! — 
[Shouts:  "Ho.oray!"] 
Lend  me  a  drinking  cup. 
[A  Voice:  "Borrer  your  hat!"    Jonas  raises  it  in  salutation.} 

I  hail  your  suggestion.  In  this  ancient  bumper  I  pro 
pose  you  a  toast.  This  is  our  Glorious  Fourth.  We 
have  gathered  to  celebrate  it.  King  George  the  Third 
is  dead.  His  ghost  is  forgotten.  You  never  heard  of 
him. 

[Voices:   "Ain't  we,  though!"    "Ah,  git  out!"     "What's  he 
sayin'?"} 


THE    ANTICK  8l 

But  King  Joy  o'  the  Fourth  is  alive.  His  spirit  reigns. 
We  all  acclaim  him. 

[Shouts:  "Hip,  hip!"] 

[The  old  man  directs  his  voice,  but  not  his  eyes,  toward  the 
lilacs,  where  John  is  listening,  his  eyes  unmoved  from  the 
An  tick.] 

Behold,  his  shrine  is  a  clear  spring  by  the  way ;  his 
worship  is  a  little  pause  in  the  heat ;  his  pilgrims  are 
passers  in  the  dust;  he  is  the  Lord  of  Waysides,  and 
brute  and  man  are  his  brothers. 

[Voices:  "Give's  a  drink!"  "Gee,  it's  hot!"] 
Here,  then,  are  come  now,  seeking  His  shrine, 
like  kingfolks  of  old,  these  twain,  man  and 
beast — yea,  for  woman  and  man  are  one  in  his  thirst — 
this  Antick  and  this  Goat.  Lo,  with  this  wine,  I  fill  now 
a  beaker  of  joy  to  them  both : 

[He  dips  his  tall  hat  in  the  trough  and  raises  it,  filled  with 
water.] 

To  Julie,  Queen  of  July,  and  King  William  the  Con 
queror  ! 

[Shouts    of    "Hooray!"      "Julie!"     "King    Billy!"     "Water 

him!"  "Give  it  to  the  goat!" 

Jonas — bowing  across  the  brim  to  Julie — holds  the  hat  with 
both  hands  under  the  goat's  nose] 

JULIE 

[Jumping  off  his  back] 
Let  me!    I  hold  it  for  Billy,  King. 

[She  takes  the  hat  from  Jonas,  kisses  the  goat  between  the 
eyes,  and  pats  him  while  he  drinks.] 

He  is  a  beaut',  my  Billy. 


82  THE    ANTICK 

A  CANUCK  FELLOW 
[Putting  one  arm  round  her,  laughing.] 
She  is  a  beaut',  my  Julie! 

[Biting  his  arm,  Julie  flings  the  remaining  hatful  of  water 
over  him.] 

Ouch— -the  Devil ! 

[He  retreats,  to  the  hoots  of  the  crowd  and  a  mock  bow,  with 
the  hat,  from  Julie.] 

JULIE 
The  Devil — give  him  my  love  where  you  go  to  him. 

[She  puts  the  hat  on  herself — and  her  own  on  Jonas — amid 
loud  laughter.] 

MRS.  WHITE 
[By  the  gate,  to  Myrtle.] 

Scand'lous!    Don't  stand  watchin'.    Come  in! 
MYRTLE 
[Dallying.] 
Where  's  John? 

MRS.  WHITE 

Oh,  he  '11  f oiler.     Come  on — quick! 

[She  pushes  Myrtle  ahead  of  her  through  the  gate,  which 
shuts  as  they  disappear.] 

JONAS 
[To  Julie,  whom  his  great  hat  has  swallowed.] 

Liege  Lady,  hide  not  such  light  under  so  damp'ning 
a  bushel ! 


THE    ANTICK  83 

[He  removes  the  soaked  hat,  which  she  still  holds  with  one 

hand.] 

JULIE 

[Coaxing  for  it  with  a  smile.] 

I  like  you,  old  mister. 

JONAS 

[Returning  her  smile — and  his  hat.] 
I  obey  you,  young  missus. 

A  SMALL-BOY  ANTICK 

[Nudging  her  elbow.] 
I  '11  frog- jump  ye  to  the  trough:  will  ye? 

JULIE 
[Romping.] 
Me— first  frog !    Go  it ! 

[They  leap-frog  each  other  to  the  water  trough.] 
A  HORRIBLE 

[Shouting.] 
Say,  there !    Your  cow  's  jumped  over  the  wall. 

JONAS 

[Consternated.] 

Hey-diddle-diddle !    Over  the  moon  would  be  better. 
In  to  her  mowing,  Lord !    The  timothy !  the  timothy ! 

JULIE 
The  grass,  is  it?    Who  own  the  field ? 


84  THE    ANTICK 

JONAS 

[Forlornly.] 

Cassandra  the  Curst !    I  am  a  dead  man.    I  shall  go 
to  heaven  chasing  that  cow. 

JULIE 

[Petting  him.} 

Not  you  care  now.    We  catch  him  for  you. — Come 
on,  boys,  girls,  catch  the  damn  cow ! 

[Shouts  of  "Catch  her!"    "Over  the  fence,  boys!"  etc.] 

THE  DRUM  MAJOR 
Forward — march ! 

[To  drumming,  horns  and  fife-squealing,  the  whole  crowd, 
with  unanimous  yell,  bolt  off  down  the  road,  bearing  the 
Minister  with  them.  In  the  uproar,  Billy  the  goat  stands 
— a  rooted  derelict — left  unregarded  behind. 

As  Julie  passes  the  lilacs,  John's  hand — thrust  out — catches 
her  sleeve.  She  glances  quickly,  stops  and  stoops  down, 
pretending  to  tie  her  boot.] 

JONAS 

[Calls  from  the  hubbub.} 
Halloa! — Hurt  yourself? 

JULIE 

No,  no ! — the  boot : — never  matter.    I  wait  here  and 
mind  Billy. 

JONAS 

[His  eye  on  the  lilacs,  waves  the  white  hat.] 
Blessing  on  the  both  of  ye! 


THE    ANTICK  85 

[Hustled  by  the  last  of  the  rabble,  he  goes  out. 

The  commotion  still  continues  beyond  view. 

Through  the  picket  gate,  Mrs.  White  issues  forth  to  fray, 
like  a  setting  fowl  from  a  coop  beset  by  polecats.  Her 
very  skirt  ruffles  with  ire,  and  her  hair  with  haste.  Bran 
dishing  a  small  kerosene-can,  she  flurries  blindly  past  Julie 
and  the  goat,  intent,  panting,  upon  the  game  ahead.] 

MRS.  WHITE 

That  cow!  My  timothy-grass!  You — you  there! 
Skunks!  Canucks!  Trespassin'!  Cows!  Timothy! 
Canucks!  — nucks! 

[Windbroken,   but   still    cackling,    she    vanishes    beyond    the 

maples. 

Outside,  gradually,  the  clamor  dies  away. 
John  comes  out  from  the  lilacs,  approaches  Julie,  makes  as 

if  to  speak,  but  stops,  confused. 
Julie  does  not  notice  him,  but  goes  to  the  goat.] 

JOHN 

[With  a  gesture  of  appeal.] 
Julie! 

JULIE 

[Fondling  the  animal] 
Yes,  he  is  nice,  pretty  boy,  my  Billy. 
JOHN 

Was  that— Pierre? 

JULIE 

And  he  have  nice,  pretty  boy  in  the  inside:  yes! 

JOHN 
The  one — you  threw  the  water  on  him. 


86  THE    AN  TICK 

JULIE 

And  he  never  tell  no  lies,  my  nice  Billy :  no ! 
{As  she  speaks,  she  humr  snatches  of  a  song  in  French*]. 

JOHN 

I  saw  him :  he  tried  to — Julie !  You  bit  him,  didn't 
you?  Is  that  the  fellow? 

JULIE 

[Taking  a  comb  from  her  blouse,  begins  to  comb  the  goat's 
beard  and  flanks.] 

And  he  stick  by  his  dear  Julie,  Queen,  nights  and 
days.  And  she  pet  him  fine,  and  make  the  beard  grand 
like  the  hotel  boss,  my  nice  Billy,  King.  So !  So ! 

JOHN 

You  know,  I  only  saw  him  that  once.  I  thought  may 
be — if  that  was  really  the  one — I — I'm  sorry. 

JULIE 

[Humming  more  merrily,  and  arranging  the  ox-eyed  daisies.] 
On  the  head,  he  have  a  crown — for  the  sun  shade. 

JOHN 

I  don't  mean  because  you  bit.  I  mean,  of  course — 
Julie! 

JULIE 

[Tying  a  big  bow-knot  in  each  streamer.] 

On  the  horn,  pretty  bows,  one,  two — for  the  flies, 
Billy. 

JOHN 

I  mean — myself:  what  I  said  that  night.     I  thought 

*[See  Note  at  end  of  volume. 


THE    ANTICK  87 

you  were  leaving  me  for  him.    But  you  didn't ! — Julie, 
you  didn't?    Please  tell  me! 

JULIE 
[Flashing.] 
Ha !    And  yet  he  is  sorry ! 

[With  a  shrug.] 

What  for,  Billy? 

JOHN 

Oh,  I  was  fool-jealous,  I  guess.  Of  course,  in  my 
heart,  I  couldn't  really  believe  you  were  living  with 
him. 

JULIE 

[With  a  wry  face.] 

Ball !    My  Billy  is  more  fine  gentleman ! 
[Then  ingratiatingly  to  the  goat.] 
One  little  drink — on  Julie,  yes? 

[With  a  curtsy.] 

Fine!    Pleasure  is  to  me. — At  the  bar? 
[Shaking  her  head.] 

Pardon!     We  serve  only  in  the  palm  garden. — Yes, 
always  the  rules  in  summer. 

[She  leads  him  to   the  trough.] 
Bordeaux,  Monsieur? — No?    Chianti? 

[She  kisses  him  on  the  nose.] 
So! — Little  water  in  the  glass? 


88  THE    ANTICK 

[The  goat  drinks.] 
Elegant! 

[With  another  curtsy — her  hand  held  slily,  as  for  a  pretended 

tip.} 
Merci,  M'sieur! 

[Having  drunk,  the  goat  is  led  to  the  settle.] 

Now — little  lunch  in  the  shade,  yes? 

[She  ties  him  where  he  may  nibble  a  birch  bough  serenely.] 

Ring,  when  he  want  some  thing ! 

[She  places  the  cow-bell  on  the  settle,  nearby.] 
Always  service,  night  and  day. — Yes,  Julie  Bonheur! 

JOHN 

[Who  has  watched  her,  charmed.] 
Ah,  yes !    You  are  different,  my  Julie ! 

JULIE 
[Feigning  to  see  him  for  the  first  time.] 

My,  my,  my? — Where,  Mr.  Hale.    Where  is  she? 

JOHN 
Where — who  ? 

JULIE 

That  Julie!     My  Julie — that's  me:  yours — I  have 
not  see  her. 

[She  turns  away.] 

JOHN 
[Cast  down.] 
You  won't  forgive  me? 


THE    ANTICK  gg 

JULIE 

Forgive?    [Shrugging.]   That's  easy. 
[She  extends  her  hand.] 

JOHN 
[Taking  it  passionately.] 

Thanks,  thanks !    You  're  too  good.    But  I'll  make 
it  up. 

[He  tries  to  take  more  than  the  hand.    She  withdraws  the 
hand.] 

JULIE 
You  make  it  up — too  much. 

JOHN 

No,  I  swear.    I  'm  not  fooling  any  more.    I  want  to 
marry  you — truly ! 

JULIE 

On  the  Independence  Day — marry  ?    That  is  dull. 

JOHN 
Not  to-day — very  soon. 

JULIE 
Have  you  not  notice —  [Smiling.]  — them? 

[She  shows  her  wide  blue  pantaloons,  with  a  flourish.] 
Ha,   them  is   fine!     To  run  in  them — to  dance — to 
jump !     Ha ! 

[She  jumps  lightly  on  the  settle,  and  from  the  settle  upon  the 
broad  rim  of  the  trough.] 

Once  the  year  I  have  legs! 


90  THE    ANTICK 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  green  banking  above  the  trough, 
and  sits  dangling  her  scarlet  boots.] 

I  live  in  the  clover.    I  am  a  grasshopper. 
[She  chirps  the  French  song  again.] 

JOHN 

[Casing  up  at  her.] 
No :  you  're  a  blue  hummingbird. 

JULIE 

[Thrusting  out  her  pointed  boots  at  him] 
Red  claws! 

JOHN 

I'll  catch  them  in  a  net  yet ! 

JULIE 
[Sticking  out  her  tongue.] 

Sharp  bill !— Bites ! 

JOHN 
[Climbing  on  the  rim  of  the  trough.] 

I  '11  risk  the  bites. 

JULIE 

[Tapping  her  round,  bare  head,  shakes  her  short  hair  at  him.] 
Little  black  head — know  it  all ! 

JOHN 
What  made  you  cut  it  off? 

JULIE 

This?     To  make  me  Pierrot!     Long-hair  Pierrette 
you  not  love  no  more. 


THE    AN  TICK  9! 

JOHN 

Ah,  Julie,  Julie  dear !    I  love  you — all  my  life ! 
JULIE 

Ah,  Johnny,   Johnny   dear!     I   love  you — all   last 
week ! 

JOHN 

Let  me  sit  by  you — please ! 

JULIE 

[Curving  her  fingers  to  scratch.] 
No  room  to  lie  down.    Stand  up ! 

JOHN 
You  make  me  want  to  drown  myself. 

JULIE 
The  water  is  fine.    Don't  mind  me. 

JOHN 
Let's  make  up! 

JULIE 
Sure! 

JOHN 

But  you  don't  give  me  the  chance ! 

JULIE 
But  you  don't  give  me  the  drink ! 

JOHN 
Some  water? 

[Looking  about.] 
There  's  no  dipper. 


92  THE    ANTICK 

JULIE 

O  Billy,  Billy,  you  hear  it?  No  dipper!  And  he 
say  I  never  give  him  the  chance. 

JOHN 
By  Jove ! 

{Letting  the  water  of  the  logspout  run  over  his  hands,  he 
hollows  them,  held  together,  fills  and  reaches  them  to  her 
with  water.] 

Here  's  the  dipper.    Will  this  do? — for  a  chance? 

JULIE 

[Pouting,  puts  her  mouth  to  his  hand-bowl] 
Oh,  yes;  I  think — 

[She  touches  her  lips  to  the  water,  and  looks  up  slily.] 
— to  begin ! 

[With  a  delighted  cry,  he  separates  his  hands  to  reach  her, 
spilling  the  water.    She  draws  back  quickly.] 

Ah,  now,  the  dipper!    It  is  broke. 
JOHN 

I'll  find  you  another  one,  to-night — in  the  sky.  A 
silver  one,  that  never  breaks.  We  '11  drink  out  of  that 
— together. 

JULIE 
Billy,  Billy  dear :  the  boots !   He  has  them  all  wet ! 

JOHN 

That  's  too  bad.     Come :  dry  them  in  the  sun. 
[He  offers  to  lift  her  down.] 


THE    ANTICK  93 

JULIE 

[Warning  him  off.] 
Take  care !    You  make  it  worse ! 

JOHN 
[Not  to  be  warned,  seises  her  in  his  arms.] 

Juliette ! 

JULIE 

[Pulling  his  hair,  escapes  and  jumps  into  the  trough.] 

So,  Mr.  Johnny ! 

JOHN 
Great  Scott! 

JULIE 

What  I  tell  you:  you  make  it  worse! 
[Kicking  the  water  at  him.] 

Keep  'way! 

JOHN 

I  won't  again.    Come  out.    You  mustn't  do  that. 
JULIE 

Well,  somebody  got  to  teach  you  how  you  drown 
.  yourself.     That  's  easy.     Look:  First  thing,  you  sit 
down. 

[She  looks  tentatively  at  the  water.] 

JOHN 
Good  Lord,  no!    You  mustn't. 

JULIE 
[Laughing.] 
No?    You  think  I  am  scared? 


94  THE   ANTICK 

JOHN 

[In  consternation.] 

No,  but  really — don't!  That  's  the  way  to  catch 
cold.  Please  come  out.  I  won't  touch  you  again,  I 
swear. 

JULIE 

[Looking  at  him  dubious,  as  at  a  naughty  child.] 
Swear  some  more. 

JOHN 

[Very  earnest.] 
I  promise  I  won't. 

JULIE 
No,  no ;  swear  good ! 

JOHN 
Damn  it  if  I  will :  There ! 

JULIE 

[In  feigned  disappointment.] 
Eh,  eh? — You  are  damn  if  you  will  swear  good? 

JOHN 
No,  I'll  be  damned  if  I  let  you  catch  cold.  Come  out ! 

JULIE 

[Stepping  out  on  the  stone  rim.] 
That  's  pretty  good. 

[She  jumps  down  in  the  road.] 
JOHN 

In  the  dust!  What  are  you  thinking  of?  Now 
they're  all  mud. 


THE   ANTICK  95 

JULIE 

[Ruefully,  viewing  her  boots.] 
Ah,  Billy,  more  worse  and  worse! 

JOHN 
If  you  had  let  me — 

JULIE 

[With  a  gay  thought,  running  to  Billy.] 

Never  matter,  Billy.    I  tell  you :  We  give  them  'way, 
for  nice  present,  Independence  Day — 

[She  sits  on  the  settle  and  takes  off  her  boots.    She  wears 
no  stockings.] 

— for  surprise  the  grand  ladies !    This  one — 

[Here  she  flings  one  boot,  which  strikes  the  picket  gate.] 
— for  the  Madame.    This  one — 

[She  looks  up  archly  at  John.] 
— for  the  mam'selle! 

[The  second  boot  lands  on  the  flagstones.] 

JOHN 

[Catching  her  spirit  of  mischief.] 
You  're  a  nice  little  devil ! — But  I  love  you  for  that ! 

JULIE 

O  Billy,  the  compliment!    I  must  return  him.     So! 
[Drying  her  feet  on  the  goafs  flanks.] 

You  are  nice  little— bath-towel.     But  I  love  you  for 
that! 

[She  hugs  the  goat  round  the  neck] 


96  THE    ANTICK 

JOHN 
[Following  suit,  after  her.] 

Well,  Billy,  since  I  have  sworn  to  the  girl — you've 
got  to  be  the  goat. 

[Caressing  the  animal,  while  Julie  dries  her  feet,  and  turns  up 
the  bottom  of  the  wet  pantaloons.} 

Ah,  Billy  dear,  I  love  you.  You  are  ten  thousand 
years  old,  and  I  have  loved  you — long  before  I  was 
born!  I  know  what  you  are,  King  Billy!  Just  now 
you're  only  a  pretender.  You  love  me,  too,  though 
you  do  mock  me  with  that  old,  old  face  of  yours.  You 
pretend  to  be  just  an  animal,  a  village  Antick,  like  the 
others.  But  I  know  who  owns  you,  and  since  I  have 
drunk  the  wine  of  this  wayside — out  of  the  trough, 
Billy — I  know  that  you  used  to  stand  on  your  hind  legs, 
on  the  grass  in  Arcadia,  and  play  on  a  water  reed,  with 
laurels  on  your  horns,  and  hyacinths  on  your  head — no 
ox-eyed  daisies  there,  Billy — and  you  and  I  and  an 
other  used  to  dance  to  the  piping  of  our  great  horned 
Master,  in  the  shade,  by  a  wayside  of  Arcady. 

JULIE 
Yes,  yes,  to  dance — with  feet  bare ! 

[Skipping  about  on  the  grass  fringe.} 
Where  is  that — Arcady?    Is  it  far? 
JOHN 

Not  to-day,  my  kiddie;  to-day  it's  close  by.  It  's 
over  there,  where  you're  skipping;  its  here,  by  Billy, 
the  god  of  green  things; 


THE    ANT1CK  97 

[Taking  his  book  from  a  pocket.] 
and  its  here — in  dreams; 

[Pointing  upward.] 

and  its  there  in  the  gold  green  above  us,  with  the  old, 
old  sun-god  of  Greece. 

JULIE 

Ha,  Greece :  I  know  that  country.    Tony,  what  black 
the  boots,  he  come  from  there. 

JOHN 

And  Julie,  that  throws  the  boots;  and  John,  the 
Canuck ! 

JULIE 

[In  surprise.] 

John  Canuck — I  dunno  him. 
JOHN 

[Going  close  to  her.] 
Johnny  ? 

JULIE 

[Looking  in  his  eyes  affectionately.] 
Oh, — Johnny ! — Canuck  ? 

JOHN 
[Yearningly.] 
Mustn't  I  be — what  you  are? 

JULIE 

[Softening  still  more.] 
I  like  it :  Canuck ! 


98  THE   ANTICK 

JOHN 
Can't  I  kiss  ?  One  won't  count ! 

JULIE 
Ah,  but  you  swear ! — Wait :  Can  you  kiss — Canuck  ? 

JOHN 
I  could  learn! 

JULIE 

[Her  face  towards  his.] 
Hands  back!     Cross  behind! 

JOHN 

[Following  her  action.] 
Hands  crossed  behind ! 

[Julie  smiles  at  him  with  ardent  tenderness,  and  nods. 
With  hands  crossed  behind  their  backs,  they  lean  to  each  other 

and  kiss  on  the  lips. 

Through  the  gate,  Myrtle  comes  down  the  flagstones. 
Seeing  them,  she  stops  suddenly,  and  stares. 
Having   kissed,   Julie   sees   Myrtle,   but  John— with   his   back 

toward  Myrtle— sees  nothing  but  Julie,  to  whom  he  speaks 

coaxingly.} 

I'm  just  beginning  to  learn ! 

JULIE 

[Laughing  at  Myrtle,  who  gasps.] 
One  teacher  at  the  time ! 

[John  turns  and  sees  Myrtle,  ivho  pretends,  in  confusion,  not 
to  have  seen  them;  stoops,  and  picks  up  the  scarlet  boot 
beside  her.} 

JOHN 
Good  Lord! 


THE    ANTICK  9 

MYRTLE 

[Examining  the  boot  gingerly,  speaks  to  John.} 
How  d'do !    Have  you  dropped  something? 

JULIE 

[Covering  John's  speechlessness.] 
Look  like  you  have  drop  some  thing,  Johnny. 

[With  a  curtsy  to  Myrtle.] 

The  one  what  the  shoe  fit — she  is  the  princess. 
MYRTLE 
[Smirking.] 

Oh! 

[Then  bridling.] 

You  needn't  never  trouble  to  fill  them  lamps,  Mister 
Hale! 

[Still  retaining   the   boot,   she   disappears   through   the   gate. 
Outside,  the  fifing  and  drumming  begin  again.] 

JULIE 
You  sure  drop  some  thing  hard — that  time,  Johnny. 

JOHN 

[Breathing  deep.] 
Is  she  gone — really  ? 

JULIE 
[Archly  pensive.] 

I  wonder ! — You  know  what  the  priest  call  the  good 
conscience? 


I00  THE    ANTICK 

JOHN 

The  priest?    [Ardently.]     Julie! 
JULIE 

My  God,  yes!  I  have  the  good  conscience — that 
time!  [With  mystery.]  — Fine!  Now  I  tell  the  bad 
secret. 

JOHN 

Secret?    What  about? 

JULIE 
[Tapping  her  breast.] 

Julie  Bonheur !  Ssh !  She  have  a  sister,  what  marry 
a  Canuck,  what  his  name  is — Ssh! 

JOHN 
What? 

JULIE 

[Darkly.] 
Is— Pierre ! 

JOHN 

He !  —The  fellow  that  I— your  sister's  husband ! 

JULIE 

Abominable!  Julie  live  in  the  house  of  her  brother- 
in-law  ! 

[She  bursts  into  laughter.] 

JOHN 
And  I  imagined — Bah!    Don't  torment  me. 

[Untying  the  goat.] 
Come,  Billy. 

[To  Julie.] 

Quick :  let 's  go  to  the  priest. 


THE  ANTICK  101 

JULIE 
What  for— the  priest? 

JOHN 

[Points  to  the  gate.] 
She  may  come  back.     Let  's  get  married. 

JULIE 

[Appalled.] 

Us — the  banns !    Have  you  not  kiss  me — Canuck  ? 

JOHN 
[Puzzled.] 
Why,  yes,  I  forgot:  but  is  that — ? 

JULIE 
[With  coming  tears.] 

Billy,  you  see  it:  so  soon  he  forgot!    And  he  talk 
of  the  banns ! 

JOHN 

Julie,  you  know  I  love  you  always — forever ! 

JULIE 
[Outraged.} 
Billy,  you  hear  it?     These  Yankees  they  say  only 

that :  /  love  you  always,  forever !    Why  not  they  say : 
/  love  you — all  this  week!? 

JOHN 

[With  emotion.] 
Don't  call  me  that:  Yankee. 
JULIE 
[Dismissing  the  gathered  storm  with  a  smile.] 


102  THE    ANTICK 

All  right :  you  call  me  Yankee,  I  call  you  Canuck. 

[Imitating  his  voice  and  struggling  with  her  accent.] 
John,  I  love  you  always — forever! 

JOHN 
Amen! 

JULIE 

[Laughing  affectionately  in  his  face.] 
Ball !    Old  John  Amen ! 

JOHN 

Now,  quick !    The  whole  gang  's  coming  back.    Get 
on  Billy,  and  we'll  go  get  married. 

JULIE 
Go  on  Billy — sure!  Go  marry — nix! 

JOHN 
Nonsense!  You  know  better. 

JULIE 

How  can  I  know  better  before  I  try?    How  can  I 
try,  before  I  know  better? 

[Imitating  him.] 
— Nonsense ! 

JOHN 

Don't  we  love  each  other  ? 

JULIE 
On  the  Independence  Day — 

[Patting  him  lovingly  like  the  goat.] 


THE    ANTICK  103 

— Ha,  he  is  Johnny!    On  the  Christmas  Day? — Ayho! 
Perhaps  he  be  John! 

JOHN 

[Half  angry.] 
Don't  talk  like  that. 

JULIE 
[Stroking  his  head.] 

No,  sure!  We  stop  talking.  We  stick  to  the  job, 
and  talk  about  the  strikes — next  Christmas. 

[Laughing.] 
May  be  I  pay  you  good  wages ! 

JOHN 
[Gasping.] 

And  aren't  we  ever  to  be  married? 

JULIE 

[Shrugging.] 

The  new  moon  grow  in  the  night !  When  Billy  dear 
he  have  the  kiddies,  he  stay  at  home,  tied  up.  Stop  the 
talking.  Here  they  come  all  with  the  cow.  Get  on ! 

JOHN 
[In  response  to  her  gesture.] 

On  Billy? 

JULIE 

What — you  call  him? — god  of  the  green  things! 

JOHN 

[Mounting  behind  her.] 
All  right,  my  Julie:  We  '11  keep  green! 


104  THE    ANTICK 

[The  clamor  of  the  Horribles  outside  bursts  louder. 
Preceding  them,  at  shouting  distance,  with  head  craned  back* 

ward,  Mrs.  White  enters,  perspiring. 
Straddling  the  goat— John  touching  his  feet  alternately  to  the 

ground — the  two  lovers  move  toward  her.] 

MRS.  WHITE 
[Shouting  back.]. 

Yes,  Minister  Boutwell,  you  just  shet  tlie  beast  in 
your  own  barn,  and  pray  by  her :  hundred  dollars  wuth, 
Jonas!  Timothy  's  high  feedin'  for  cows! 

[Turning,  she  confronts  the  beridden  goat.] 

Well,  if  here  aint  the  Antique :  male  and  female ! — My 
God,  him — John! 

JOHN 
[Politely] 
Did  you  catch  the  cow,  Mrs.  White? 

MRS.  WHITE 

[Staring  aghast,  bolts  past  the  goat  for  the  gate.] 
No,  land!    It  aint  human! 

JULIE 

[Calls  after  her.] 
Please ! — We  drop  some  thing. 

[Mrs.  White,  who  has  reached  the  other  red  boot,  pauses  and 
looks  from  that  to  the  couple.    Julie  nods  graciously] 

Yes,  thank  you. 

[Mrs.  White  picks  it  up.] 
Please,  will  Madame  throw  it  after  us — the  old  shoe ! 


THE    ANTICK  105 

[She  bursts  into  merry  peals,  answered  by  hilarious  laughter 
from  the  rabble  outside,  whose  entrance  with  fife  and 
drum  is  imminent.] 

MRS.  WHITE 
Well,  if  that  don't  beat  the  Lord ! — 

[Flinging  the  shoe  at  them.]  ' 

And  good  riddance! 

[Standing  in  the  road,  she  glowers  toward  the  arch  of  the 
maples,  where  John  and  Julie,  urging  forward  the  be- 
straddled  goat,  arc  greeted  by  the  joyous  cheers  of  the 
Anticks  and  Horribles.] 


CURTAIN. 


THE  CAT-BOAT 

A  Fantasy  for  Music 


CHARACTERS 


NICO. 

HIS  MOTHER. 
A  SKIPPER. 
NEREIDA. 


TIME:  To-day. 

PLACE:  Mt.  Desert,  Maine. 


THE  CAT-BOAT' 

The  scene  is  a  small  work-shop.  Occupying  the  larger  part  of 
it,  stands  a  partly  completed  sail-boat,  jacked  up  on  wood 
en  Jiorses.  An  old  spar,  placed  in  it  tentatively  as  a  mast, 
is  wedged  at  the  top  against  the  ceiling — evidently  a  tem 
porary  makeshift,  as  a  proportionate  mast  would  tower 
four  times  the  height  of  the  room.  The  floor  of  the  room 
is  littered  with  ends  of  boards  and  beams.  Sawdust  and 
shavings  are  piled  high  about  the  boat's  keel.  On  its  bow 
the  word  "NEREID A"  has  been  blocked  in,  with  green 
lettering. 

Along  the  left  wall,  a  work-bench  in  confusion.  Jumbled 
among  the  tools  are  several  books,  in  one  of  which  a 
chisel  is  laid,  to  keep  the  open  page.  At  back,  left,  a 
large  door ;  at  back,  centre,  a  small-paned  window,  half- 
open.  Through  these  are  glimpses  of  a  sea-scape  toward 
sunset:  fishing-skiffs  aground  on  a  low-tide  beach. 

On  the  near  side  of  the  boat,  Nico — a  robust,  Portuguese  type 
of  boy  in  his  teens — is  stretched  along  the  deck.  His  face 
is  partly  hidden  in  his  bent  right-arm  and  deep-black  locks; 
his  •left  arm  hangs  over  the  boat's  side,  swinging  from  the 
half-relaxed  hand  a  hammer,  with  slow,  pendulum  motion. 

Faintly,  yet  with  a  sense  of  nearness,  rises  the  singing  of  a 
girl's  voice. 


•Copyright,    1912,  by  Percy   MacKaye.     All   rights  reserved. 
109 


HO  THE    CAT-BOAT 

THE  VOICE 

I  lay  in  the  heart  of  a  wave 

In  the  burning  west ; 
The  Lord  of  Evening  flamed 

His  royalest ; 
And  gorgeous  mists  went  by 

Like  guest  on  guest 
Over  a  palace  floor, 

All  richly  dresst 

[Nico   rises  and   leans   on   his   right  arm,   staring  upon   the 
shavings.} 

Out  of  the  crimson  came 

A  ship  of  gray; 
I  watched  her  silver  prow 

Flash  far  away ; 
She  flew  like  a  shining  hawk 

That  seeks  her  prey, 
And  round  her  bosom  sprang 

The  dazzling  spray. 

{In  the  doorway  appears  the  SKIPPER.  Nico  relaxes  again 
to  his  first  attitude,  recommencing  the  pendulum  motion 
of  the  hammer.] 

Amid  her  sails  I  saw 

The  pied  mists  hover, 
Like  butterflies  that  float 

Among  white  clover, 
And  a  fair  boy  his  arm 

Was  dangling  over ; 
I  seized  his  hand  and  kissed 

And  called  him  lover ! 


THE    CAT-BOAT  lir 

[The  Skipper,  carrying  a  bucket,  comes  into  the  shop,  pauses, 
eyes   the   oblivious   boy,  adjusts  a  plug  of  tobacco,  and 
spits.     Nico  leaps  to  his  feet  and  stands  upright  on  the  . 
deck.] 

THE  SKIPPER 

'Ev'nin',  Nick. 

[Half  frightened,  half  fascinated,  the  boy  gazes  at  the  Skip 
per,  as  if  trying  to  focus  his  wits  on  an  apparition.] 

'Sleep  again? 

[Nico,  still  half  fearful,  begins  to  hammer  rapidly.] 
'Sleep  again,  I  asked  ye? 

NICO 
No,  Cap'n. 

THE  SKIPPER 
Oh! 

[Setting  down  his  bucket,  he  draws  out  a  stool  and  prepares  a 
plug  of  tobacco.] 

Hammered  that  same  peg  twenty-'leven,  times,  ain't 
ye? — Bust  it,  won't  ye? 

NICO 
I  beg  pardon. 

THE  SKIPPER 
Oh! 

[Nico  recommences  feverishly.] 

Quit,  can  ye? 

[Tapping  his  forehead.] 

I've  got  some  idees  on  to  boil,  and  I  want  quiet  to  cook 
'em. 

[Picking  up  the  open-book  from  the  work-bench.] 
Principles  of  navigation? 


112  THE    CAT -DO  AT 

NICO 
{Trying  to  secure  it  courteously  but  with  haste.} 

It  's  mine. 

THE  SKIPPER 

Hold  on.     [Reads.]  —"The  Odyssey."    Hm !    What 
truck's  that?— Up-to-date? 

NICO 

[Having  secured  it.] 
I  think  so. 

[He  secretes  it  under  some  shavings.] 
THE  SKIPPER 

[Points  to  his  bucket.] 
See  them? 

NICO 

Blue  fish.    Fine  ones ! 

THE  SKIPPER 
How  long  since  you  catched  some? 

NICO 
I  don't  know,  Cap'n.    Six  weeks,  I  guess. 

THE  SKIPPER 
Six  months,  damn  it! — Them's  for  your  mother. 

NICO 

[Brightening.] 
For  mother ! 

THE  SKIPPER 
I  seen  her  scrapin'  round  at  low-tide  for  clams.    All 


THE    CAT-BOAT  113 

she  got  was  barnacles.     I  seen  her  cook  'em;  yes,  sir, 
and  eat  on  'em.    You're  a  pretty  brat — you ! 

NICO 

She'll  be  glad  of  these.    You're  very  kind. 
THE  SKIPPER 

Oh,  I'm  a  philanthropist — me !  That's  the  fifth  mess 
I've  catched  for  her  in  a  fortnight.  I  fished  'em  into 
my  boat,  the  Betsy.  Say !  How's  trade  with  you, 
Nicky?  How  many  saw-dust  herrin'  have  ye  hauled 
into  your  beauty  here — what  ye  call  her? 

NICO 
[Low.} 
Nereida. 

THE  SKIPPER 

One  of  your  dad's  fancy-article  names,  what?  He 
were  a  school-master  in  Massachusetts,  what? 

NICO 
Yes,  Cap'n. 

THE  SKIPPER 

[Mutters,  reminiscent.} 

Come  up  here  to  Mt.  Desert  for  the  holidays  and  fell 
to  courtin'  a  Portugee  girl.  Married  her,  too,  took  to 
fishin'  and  got  drowned.  Folks  say  you  take  after  him, 
what? 

NICO 
They  say  so. 

THE  SKIPPER 

Then  why  in  God's  fish-hook  don't  ye  clear  away  off 


THE    CAT-BOAT 


down  to  Massachusetts  and  take  to  the  school-mister 
business  like  him?  Why  don't  ye  quit  this  makin'-out 
ye're  a  shipwright,  and  support  your  poor,  old  ailin' 
mother,  what  ain't  even  got  food  and  gear  for  herself, 
by  God! 

NICO 
[Ardently.} 

My  mother  shall  have  all  her  heart  desires.  I  've 
promised  her.  You  shall  see,  Cap'n;  you  shall  see, 
when  I  finish  Nereida. 

THE  SKIPPER 

When  ye  finish  Nereida!    That's  prime.    Did  ye  ever 
finish  anythin'  yet  ye  started  out  to  ? 
[Points  to  the  boat.] 

Look  at  her  there.  She  were  begun  a  year  ago;  three 
months  ago  she  were  precisely  the  same  stage  o'  growth 
as  she  sets  there  now.  What  ye  got  that  stick  stuck 
up  for  a  mast  for  ? 

NICO 

[Embarrassed.} 

That's  only — that's  just  to  sail  her  with,  sometimes. 
THE  SKIPPER 

Sail  her,  eh?  Where  away?  Into  the  fireplace  and 
up  the  chimney  ?  And  what  ye  keep  your  shop  messed 
up  with  these  here  shavin's  and  truck  for  ? 

NICO 

[Reservedly.] 
The  shavings — you  don't  understand,  Cap'n. 


THE    CAT-BOAT  115 

THE  SKIPPER 

Oh,  I  don't,  mebbe.  Wall,  I  understand  this,  young 
man :  you  play !  You  play  like  a  kid  when  y'  ought  to 
be  workin'  like  a  man.  How  darest  ye  raise  the  cheek 
to  build  ye  a  sailin'  boat  anyhow  ? 

NICO 

I  Ve  watched  the  boats  sail,  always. 
THE  SKIPPER 

See-a-boat  sails  a  boat.  Lookin'  's  doin'.  That  your 
point  ? 

NICO 

I  Ve  longed  always  to  build  one  myself. 
THE  SKIPPER 

Long-for-a-cat-boat  builds  ye  a  cat-boat;  long- 
for-the-White-House  gets  ye  the  White  House;  long- 
for-the- full-moon  gets  ye  the  full  moon! — That  your 
point  ? 

NICO 

[Puzzled.} 

Perhaps  you  don't  understand,  Cap'n.  When  the 
breeze  is  stiff,  a  sail-boat  is  wonderful.  She's  like  an 
aquatic  bird :  the  green  water  bubbles  round  her  breast ; 
then  she's  just  about  to  dive.  The  blue  sky  spreads 
under  her  wings ;  then  she's  just  going  to  fly. 

THE  SKIPPER 

[Peering,  keenly.} 
But  doos  she? 


Il6  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 
[Oblivious.} 

Then  she  rounds  a  rocky  headland ;  you  can't  see  her 
slim  body  for  the  hemlocks;  but  right  against  the 
mountains  you  see  her  bright  stretched  wings  floating 
inland  silently  to  her  nest. 

THE  SKIPPER 

[Scratching  his  chin.} 

Why,  Nick,  my  lad,  then  that  settles  me  in  my  mind. 
I  ain't  much ;  you  beat  me ;  I  own  up :  there's  more  fish 
in  the  sea  than  ever  I  catched,  and  that's  all.  But  jest 
one  thing;  jest  one  thing,  I  ask  ye,  my  lad. — You  love 
your  mother? 

NICO 

You  know  it — how  much. 

THE  SKIPPER 
Do  I  ?    P'raps  mebbe. 

NICO 
[Simply.] 
I  would  die  for  her. 

THE  SKIPPER 

Jest  this,  then:  if  ye  love  your  mother,  finish  that 
boat;  don't  let  your  Ma  die,  but  finish  that  boat;  and 
when  you've  got  her  done — I'll  pay  ye  two  hundred  dol 
lars  for  her. 

NICO 

Cap'n !    Two  hundred  dollars ! 


THE    CAT-BOAT  117 

[Seising  the  Skipper's  hand,  he  kisses  it.] 
— Cap'n ! 

THE  SKIPPER 

[Drawing  his  hand  away.] 
Say,  come! — You  promise  to  finish  her? 
NICO 

I  promise !    I  can  do  it  easily  by  this  day  week.    O 
Mammy !  dear,  poor  Mammy !  You'll  be  a  queen  then ! 

THE  SKIPPER 

Gettin'  late;  better  come  along  and  fetch  them  fish 
home  t'  her. 

NICO 

No,  no!    You  take  them;  please!   I'm  going  to  get 
right  to  work.    Til  come  later. 

THE  SKIPPER 
Wall !— Good  night. 

[Takes  up  the  bucket.] 
By  the  by, — finish  that  boat! 

[He  goes  out.] 

NICO 
[Calls  after  him.} 

I've  promised,  Cap'n.    Tell  Mammy  to  come  and  see 
me  at  work. 

[Joyously.] 

Two  hundred  dollars ! 

[Seising  up  his  hammer,  he  springs  to  the  boat  and  strikes  a 
single  blow.     A  chorus  of  girlish  voices  fills  the  room. 


H8  THE    CAT-BOAT 

Nico  pauses  an  instant,  then  pounds  faster,  striving  to 
drown  them.  Finally,  as  they  sing  on,  he  drops  his  ham 
mer,  and  holds  his  hands  over  his  ears.] 

THE  VOICES 

Follow  up !  follow  up ! — follow  after ! 

To  the  shores  that  are  sweet  with  our  laughter, 

Where  the  silvery  petrel  claps  his  wings 

And  the  cliffs  are  hoarse  with  our  hallooings. 

NICO 

0  God! 

THE  VOICES 

Follow  on  !  follow  on ! — follow  fleeter ! 
To  the  reefs  where  our  chorus  grows  sweeter, 
Where  we  chase  and  race  our  white-maned  fillies 
That  trample  the  hlue-green  ocean-lilies. 

NICO 

[Crying  out.] 
Stop! 

THE  VOICES 

Follow  down!  follow  down! — follow  faster! 
To  the  beautiful  deeps  of  disaster, 
Where  we  clash  and  dash  our  foaming  chalices 
In  the  roaring  courts  of  our  silent  palaces. 

NICO 

1  will  not  hear! 

[Passionately  he  recommences  his  hammering  and,  to  drown 
their  song,  sings  to  the  cadence  of  his  blows.] 


THE    CAT-BOAT  ug 

Who  shall  be  served? — The  Lord  He  said! — 
From  Kennebunkport  to  Californee? 

Who  gave  me  birth?    Who  gives  me  bread? 

Hep!   March! 
'Tis  my  own  Countree. 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 

[As  in  pain.} 
Nico ! — Nico ! 

NICO 

[Hammers  and  sings. 1 
Proudly  her  liegemen  sons  she  led 

From  Kennebunkport  to  Californee, 
And  freedom  sang  above  the  tread 

Hep!   March! 
Of  my  own  Countree. 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
Nico,  pity !    You  bruise  my  side. 

NICO 

[Hammers  and  sings.] 

She  has  set  her  stars  to  watch  her  dead 
From  Kennebunkport  to  Californee: 
For  she  's  sung  'em  to  sleep  with  the  singing  lead, 

Hep!   March! 
Has  my  own  Countree. 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
You  wound  my  breast. 

NICO 
[Hammers  and  sings.] 


'120  THE   CAT-BOAT 

Good-bye  to  weanling!    Good-bye  to  wed! 

From  Kennebunkport  to  Calif  ornee: 
I  am  gone  with  the  rest  for  to  make  my  bed 

Hep!  March! 
With  my  own  Countree. 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
You  break  my  heart. 

NICO 
[Ceasing.} 
Nereida !    Nereida ! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 

[Still  as  in  pain.] 
No  more! 

NICO 

What  have  I  done  ?    Forgive  me ! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
Nico! 

NICO 

[Laying  his  head  against  the  prow  of  the  boat.] 
Come  to  me ! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 

Are  you  true? 

NICO 
Come  to  me ! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
Will  you  not  beat  my  bosom  with  your  steel  ? 


THE    CAT-BOAT  121 

NICO 

[Flinging  his  hammer  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  shop.] 
Come  to  me! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
Fine,  Nico! 

[From  the  prow  of  the  boat,  where  the  shavings  are  piled 
highest,  NEREIDA  emerges — head  and  shoulders  and  breast 
above  the  deck,  where  a  shaft  of  the  sunset  through  the 
window  falls  upon  her.  Like  the  golden,  curling  shavings 
are  the  long  ringlets  of  her  hair,  and  through  the  sweet- 
scented  pile  about  her  shoulders  she  reaches  her  arms  to 
Nico.] 

NICO 
At  last! 

[He  embraces  her,  and  playfully  she  half  smothers  his  face 
in  the  shavings.] 

NEREIDA 

Cruel  Nico!  feel  here  at  my  side  where  your  cold 
hammer  bruised  me.  Kiss  here  my  throat,  where  the 
hard  steel  wounded.  Are  not  you  ashamed,  naughty 
Nico? 

NICO 

[Kissing  her.] 
I  am  happy  and  sad.    Let  me  forget. 

NEREIDA 

Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  my  soul  ?  Must  you 
make  for  me  a  shell  to  creep  into,  to  pine  in  and  be 
tossed  in — a  toy  for  my  own  mermaids — till  at  last, 
flung  upon  the  storm  beach,  I  scorch  and  wither  there  ? 


122  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 
Let  me  forget,  Nereida. 

NEREIDA 

And  when  you  have  nailed  me  fast  in  my  sea-sarco 
phagus,  will  you  paint  neatly  on  my  tomb  NEREIDA — 

[Points  to  the  lettering.] 

like  that — and  praise  me  among  the  skippers  in  the 
dockyard,  and  say :  "Look  at  her  there !  Isn't  she 
perfect?  Show  me  a  cutter  or  brig  like  Nereida! " 

NICO 

Your  hammer  is  harder  than  mine.    Spare  me! 
NEREIDA 

What,  my  Nico!  Did  you  spare  me?  This  work 
of  your  hammer  and  saw — what  will  it  avail  you  when 
all  is  shipshape  and  perfect?  Will  it  be  I? 

NICO 
•     No,  no ! 

NEREIDA 

What,  then,  am  I  to  you,  Nico  ? 
NICO 

Nereida,  you  are  all — all  that  the  heart  in  my  ham 
mer  yearns  toward. 

NEREIDA 

All  rather  that  your  thick-headed  hammer  would 
destroy!  I  am  your  full-rigged  frigate  under  sail, 
your  wide- winged  racer  flying,  your  sloop  moored  in 


THE    CAT-BOAT  123 

the  moonlight,  your  skiff,  skimming  the  breezy  silver 
of  the  dawn.  I  am  the  awful  flashing  of  your  thousand 
triremes,  and  I  am  the  white-winged  peace  of  all  your 
argosies.  Yet  you — O  Nico!  O  excellent  master 
architect !  What  thing  is  this  which  your  art  has  label 
led  Nereida?  What  ultimate  fulfilment  of  our  love? 
— A  skipper's  cat-boat,  for  sale  for  two  hundred  dol 
lars! 

NICO 

No,  no !  I  will  build  you  the  triremes,  the  argosies — 
a  thousand  fleets.  Only  first  I  will  complete — just  a 
cat-boat. 

NEREIDA 

Complete?  What  would  you  complete? — The  stars? 
The  dance  of  the  worlds?  The  song  of  the  angels? 
What  would  you  complete,  my  Nico? — A  coffin  for 
your  beloved  ? 

NICO 

[Pained.} 
Nereida!    But  I  have  promised! 

[With  a  cry,  Nereida  disappears  within  the  prow.] 

Nereida,  come  back ! 

[In    desperation,    Nico    grasps   vainly   among    the   shavings, 
kisses  the  wood,  touches  the  boat  caressingly.] 

Come  back,  Nereida!  Only  hear  me.  She  is  old — 
dear,  poor  Mammy !  She  is  ill ;  she  starves.  She  has 
none  but  me :  I  have  given  the  Skipper  my  word.  If  I 
break  it,  she  will  die.  Only  hear  me,  Nereida !  She  is 
old ;  she  is  ill ;  she  will  die ! 


124  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
[Sings.] 

Behind  the  larch  my  sail  is  set 

By  the  dusk-green  cedar's  pile. 
Where  the  brine  is  on  the  violet, 
And  the  balsam's  dipping  bough  is  wet 
By  the  long  and  the  blue  and  the  bright  inlet 

That  clasps  the  heart  of  the  isle. 

NICO 

[Sinking  down.] 
She  is  old ;  she  is  ill ;  she  will  die ! 

NEREIDA'S    VOICE 
[Sings.] 

Lay  your  head  in  the  lap  of  me 

And  good-bye  to  the  shore ! 
Leave  laurel  and  lark  and  swarded  lea, 
Leave  homing  swallow  and  hiving  bee, 
And  lie  with  me  and  the  infinite  sea, 

Forever  and  evermore ! 

NICO 

Nereida,  come  back!    I  will  never  lift  my  hammer 
again ! 

NEREIDA 

[Her  wan-bright  locks  rising  through  a  pile  of  loose  shavings 
in  the  sun's  slant  beam.} 

Swear  it,  Nico! 


THE    CAT-BOAT  12$ 

NICO 
[Springing  towards  her.] 

I  swear  it! 

NEREIDA 

[Disappears  from   the  shavings  and  rises  again,  waist-high, 
from  the  boat — this  time  beside  the  rudder.} 

Fine  Nico!    Kiss  me  and  forget! 

NICO 
Nereida ! 

[Passionately  he  goes  to  her  and  kisses  her;  then  leaps  joyously 
upon  the  deck,  runs  to  the  edge  and  winds  an  imaginary 
cable.] 

Heave  anchor !    Off  shore !    Let  her  free ! 

NEREIDA 

The  wind  's  sou'west ;  pile  the  white-caps,  Nico. 
NICO 

[Springs  down,  gathers  up  armfuls  of  shavings  and  sawdust 
and  heaps  them  higher  about  the  bow  of  the  boat.] 

Loose  the  port  halyards,  Nereida.     Let  the  boom 
swing. 

NEREIDA 
[As  she  loosens  invisible  ropes.] 

Pile  higher. 

NICO 

[Running  with  a  fresh  armful] 
How's  this  for  a  sea ! 


126  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NEREIDA 

Aboard !  aboard !    She's  off. 
NICO 
[Bounds  upon  the  deck.] 

Hurrah!  She  leaps  like  a  colt  with  foam  on  her 
bit.  Aha !  feel  her  flanks  tingle ;  it's  her  racing  blood ! 
— Port!  port!  taut  her  mains'l. 

NEREIDA 

Look  away  to  the  sky-line,  Nico ! — The  wide,  bright 
world ! 

NICO 
[In  the  prow.] 

White  and  blue,  white  and  blue,  on  and  forever! 
Watch  how  her  bowsprit  dips  and  the  big  wave  boils 
round  her.  Haha!  did  you  catch  that  spray  in  the 
eyes  ?  I  '11  be  Columbus,  Nereida ;  and  you  shall  be  the 
crew  and  mutiny. — Or  why  not  Magellan?  To  circle 
first  around  our  star.  Or  Darwin  ?  To  watch  the  man- 
beasts  crawl  on  Tierra  del  Fuegos.  Or  Perry  off 
Japan !  At  sunrise,  to  see  the  bronze  diver  fetch  up  his 
pearl  to  the  foam,  in  the  blue  shadow  of  Fujiyama !  Or 
some  old  Phoenecian  captain,  creeping — aghast  and 
alone — westward  between  the  pillars  of  Hercules! 
Which  of  all  shall  we  be,  Nereida  ?  We  are  free :  Say 
— where  shall  we  steer? 

NEREIDA 

[Lifting  the  book  from  the  shavings,  where  Nico  concealed 
it  from  the  Skipper.] 

Shall  1  choose? 


THE   CAT-BOAT  127 

NICO 
Choose,  you ! 

NEREIDA 

Take  me  home,  then,  Nico :  mine  is  the  olden  time. 
[Handing  him  the  book.] 

Here  is  our  chart-book;  by  this  we  will  steer.     Look 
away  there  to  starboard ! — 

The  reef  and  the  breakers :  beyond  them  the  long 
blue  hill  slopes  inland  upward  into  the  isle  of  Aea. 

NICO 

[Sinks  down,  laying  the  book  on  the  deck  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands.] 

The  isle  of  Circe ! 

NEREIDA 

Hark !  Do  you  hear  them,  Odysseus  ?  The  roar  of 
the  waves  is  loud,  but  their  voices  are  heard  in  your 
heart.  Are  they  wolves?  Are  they  swine?  Hark 
again ! 

NICO 

My  men !  my  men ! — Their  hoofs  are  tearing  the  turf 
by  the  palace-door;  their  snouts  are  nozzling  the  pop 
pies  by  the  fountain.  Let  me  up  from  our  couch,  let 
me  go  to  them — Circe !  enchantress ! 

NEREIDA 

[Drawing  him  close  with  one  arm,  zvith  the  hand  of  the  other 
places  upon  his  hair  a  garland,  which  she  has  been  twisting 
of  the  shavings.] 

My  lord  and  hero  dreams — See !  I  have  woven  him 
a  chaplet  of  the  poppies. 


128  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 

[Lying  beside  Nereida  on  the  deck — the  book  near  them.] 

Kiss  me  again ! 

NEREIDA 

[Ever  visible  only  to  the  waist,  bends  sinuously  forward 
along  the  boat's  side,  and  letting  her  long  locks  fall 
among  the  waves  of  the  shavings,  scoops  up  a  hand 
ful  of  sawdust,  which  through  her  two  small  fists 
she  lets  glide,  backward  and  forward,  as  through  an 
hour-glass.] 

Look,  dreamer  of  gods!  These  are  the  golden 
sands  of  Circe's  isle.  Behold  how  swiftly  they  mete 
the  life-time  of  dreams! 

NICO 
How  beautiful — the  sands  of  Circe's  isle! 

NEREIDA 
And  feel — how  heavy. 

NICO 
Gold — solid  gold  ! 

NEREIDA 
[Letting  fall  the  last.] 

And  glisten  so  fine. — Ah!  my  hero,  love  me  longer. 
The  sands  are  black  in  Ithaca,  your  home. 

NICO 
Home ! — home ! 

NEREIDA 
The  seas  are  terrible  between  Ithaca  and  here. 


THE    CAT-BOAT  129 

NICO 

Goodbye — for  home.  She  is  waiting — she  prays  for 
me! 

NEREIDA 

Beyond  my  isle  lies  destruction ;  the  shadows  of  hell 
are  there.  Scylla  devours  her  living  and  Charybdis 
sucks  down  her  dead.  Do  not  leave  me,  my  hero ! 

NICO 

Heave  off !  my  men.    Set  her  sails. 
NEREIDA 

The  Sirens  sing  their  song  from  the  meadow  of 
skulls  and  flowers.  The  crew's  ears  must  be  stopped 
with  wax;  if  they  hear,  they  are  lost.  But  you  I 
will  lash  in  the  masthead,  and  you  shall  listen. 

[Where  he  stands  against  the  mast,  she  begins  to  tie  him  to 
it  with  strands  of  the  shavings,  which  she  twists  and 
knots  together.  He  helps  her.] 

NICO 
The  Sirens'  voices — are  they  as  sweet  as  yours  ? 

NEREIDA 
Even  as  mine. 

NICO 

O  bind  me,  then,  with  the  chains  of  Prometheus. 
NEREIDA 

These  thongs  are  mightier  than  his.  So ! — now  you 
are  bound.  Set  sail !  Scylla  and  Charybdis  are  loom 
ing  ahead.  Farewell,  my  Odysseus! 


I3o  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 
Circe,  farewell! 

NEREIDA 
Farewell ! 

[Sliding  amid  the  shavings  where  they  are  piled  highest,  she 
glides  overboard  and  is  gone.  The  work-shop  has  become 
twilit;  Nico  stands  tied  to  the  mast,  motionless,  ex 
cept  for  his  head,  which  turns,  or  is  thrust  forward,  lis 
tening,  as  his  eyes  seem  to  descry  the  things  of  his 
imagination.] 

NICO 

Where  are  we  drifting,  my  men?  The  night  comes 
down. 

Where  are  we  drifting?  Their  ears  are  filled  with 
wax :  they  cannot  hear. 

[Out   of   the   dusk   comes   a   music   of  rushing   waters,   and 
female  voices  are  heard  singing:] 

THE  VOICES 

Stay!  stay! 

Stay  thy  wing'd  barque, 
King  of  Achseans! 
Hark — hark 
The  Sirens'  story 
Of  heroes  castaway: 
The  Argives'  glory, 
Their  victories  and  paeans ! 

NICO 
I  hear  you,  Sirens. 

THE  VOICES 

Troy-land !     Troy-land ! 
Her  orient  halls ! 


THE    CAT-BOAT 

Troy-land !    Troy-land ! 

Her  cloud-capp'd,  kindling  walls ! 

NICO 
The  roaring  waters  hear  you.     Sing  on! 

THE  VOICES 

Who  guessed  the  might  of  them, 
The  gladness,  the  glow? 

Drunk  at  the  sight  of  them, 
Who  dreamed  of  the  woe  ? 

NICO 
Ah,  me! 

THE  VOICES 

Not  they,  the  Achseans ! 

Hearken  their  paeans: 

Sisters,  we  know ! 

Sing  them  again — 

The  songs  of  the  silent  dead  men — 

Sing  them  low. 

NICO 
Sing  always! 

THE  VOICES 
Odysseus ! 
Come  hither  and  rest. 

NICO 
I  am  coming! 

THE  VOICES 

Odysseus ! 

Thou  only  shalt  hear: 


132  THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 
I  am  yours! 

THE  VOICES 

The  beauty,  the  joy  and  the  martyrdom, 

The  knowledge,  the  fear, 

And  the  woe  that  were  and  will  come — 

To  thee  alone 

Shall  be  known. 

NICO 

Let  me  free!     Loose  me,  my  men! 
THE  VOICES 

To  the  dreadful,  the  dear, 

O  draw  near! 

Our  breasts  to  thy  breast 

And  the  heart  of  the  god  beating  under ! 

From  our  lips  the  rest — 

Troy-land !     Troy-land ! 

And  all  the  wonder! 

[In  the  doorzvay  appears  an  old  and  haggard  WOMAN,  ill- 
clad  and  feeble.  She  carries  a  lighted  lantern,  and  peers 
in.] 

NICO 
[Struggling.] 

Loose  me ! — They  do  not  hear. — Let  me  free !    Let 
me  free! — Dear  goddess  of  Love,  let  me  free! 

THE   OLD  WOMAN 
[Feebly  hastens  toward  him.] 
Nico!     Little  Nico!  what  ails  ye? 


THE    CAT-BOAT 

NICO 

At  last!    She  's  come! — Let  me  free! 
THE  OLD   WOMAN 

[Climbing  from  a  stool  upon  the  boat.} 
My  boy,  what  's  happed  ye  ?    Who's  tied  ye  here  ? 

[Loosens  him.} 
Why,  it's  only  shavin's  that  bind  ye! 

[Retreating  before  his  passionate  gesture,  to  the  floor.} 

Stop !  stop,  Nico !    Why  do  ye  stare  so  ?    Stand  away, 
boy!    Don't  ye  know  me? 

NICO 

[Following  her  wildly  with  outstretched  arms,  falls  at  her 
feet  and  embraces  her  knees.} 

You  are  the  Queen  of  the  Sirens!  I  love  you! 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 
Nico!    Don't  ye  know  your  own  Mammy? 

NICO 

[Springing  to  his  feet,  staggers  back,  staring,  then  seising  up 
the  lantern,  brings  it  close  to  the  old  woman's  face, 
scanning  it  terribly.} 

Mother ! 

[He  drops  the  lantern,  which  goes  out,  leaving  the  shop  in 
vague  twilight.} 

No,  no !    She  's  false !    She  has  betrayed  me. 

[Flinging  himself  beside  the  boat.} 
Nereida!     Come  back  to  me,  Nereida! 


134 


THE    CAT-BOAT 
THE  OLD  WOMAN 


Little  Nico! 

[She  gropes  toward  him.] 

NICO 
She  's  gone;  she  fs  false.     Nereida!    Come  to  me, 


Nereida ! 


THE  OLD  WOMAN 
[Appalled.] 


What's  that  in  your  hand?     Stop!     What  '11  ye 
do  ?    How  will  we  live,  boy,  if  ye  do  it  ? 

NICO 

Nereida!  for  the  last  time,  answer  me!    Come  back 
to  me! 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 

Put  it  down,  Nico! 

[Kneeling.] 

God,  take  the  axe  from  him  and  save  us ! 

NICO 

She  doesn't   answer.     See  then,   Nereida!     I   am 
coming  to  you.    I  will  find  you  and  make  you  mine. 

[There  resounds  the  crash  of  a  falling  mast;  and  the  dimly- 
seen  form  of  Nico,  heavily  swinging  an  axe,  is  heard 
hacking  and  smashing  the  hull  of  the  ship  to  pieces.] 

Are  you  here?    Are  you  hiding  deeper? 
THE  OLD  WOMAN 

[Still  kneeling.] 
Lord,  save  little  Nico! 


THE    CAT-BOAT  135 

I 

NICO 

[Calling  amid   his  blows.] 
Nereida!     Nereida!     Nereida!     Nereida! 

[Among  the  heaped  litter  of  broken  boards,  shavings  and 
sawdust,  he  sinks  down  exhausted.  As  the  old  woman 
is  trying  tremulously  to  re-light  the  lantern,  the  head  and 
bust  of  Nereida  rise  through  a  pile  of  sawdust  beside 
Nico,  irradiated  by  a  dim  rainbow-light  from  below.] 

NEREIDA 
Did  you  call  me,  Nico?    Don't  you  know  me? 

NICO 

[Faintly,  trying  to  rise.] 
Beautiful  and  terrible,  what  are  you? 
NEREIDA 

I  am  the  naiad  of  the  uncompleted — the  Circe  of 
dreams.  I  am  the  beauty  of  wreck,  the  aurora  of 
despair.  You  will  build  again  and  again,  and  I  will 
come  and  abide  in  your  masterwork,  till  the 
work  shall  crumble.  You  will  love  me  and  hate  me 
again,  but  you  shall  not  elude  me.  Till  by  and  by, 
Nico  mine,  in  the  endless  rebuilding  of  life,  you  shall 
take  me  to  your  heart  and  love  me,  and  make  me  your 
mistress  forever. 

NICO 

[Reaching  to  embrace  her.] 
My  beloved! 

[She  sinks  into  the  sawdust  and  disappears.] 


136  THE    CAT-BOAT 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 
[Comes  wistfully  over  to  him  with  the  lantern.] 

What's  that  ye're  starin'  on,  little  Nico?     What's 
that  ye're  takin'  to  your  heart? 

NICO 

[Groping  with  his  arms  amid  the  pile,  then  strewing  it  over 
his  bowed  head  and  shoulders.} 

Sawdust,  Mammy ! — sawdust ! 


'CURTAIN. 


SAM  AVERAGE 
A  Silhouette 


CHARACTERS 


ANDREW. 

JOEL. 

ELLEN. 

SAM  AVERAGE. 


An  intrenchment  in  Canada,  near  Niagara  Falls,  in  the  year 
1814.     Night,  shortly  before  dawn. 


SAM  AVERAGE* 

On  the  right,  the  dull  glow  of  a  smouldering  wood- fire 
ruddies  the  earthen  embankment,  the  low-stretched  outline 
of  which  forms,  with  darkness,  the  scenic  background. 

Near  the  centre,  left,  against  the  dark,  a  flag  with  stars  fl.oats 
from  its  standard. 

Beside]  the  fire,  ANDREW,  reclined,  gases  at  a  small  frame  in 
his  hand;  near  him  is  a  knapsack,  with  contents  emptied 
beside  it. 

On  the  embankment,  JOEL,  with  a  gun,  paces  back  and  forth, 
a  blanket  thrown  about  his  shoulders. 


JOEL 

[With  a  singing  call.} 
Four  o'clock!— All  's  well! 
[Jumping  down  from  the  embankment,  he  approaches  the  fire.] 

ANDREW 
By  God,  Joel,  it  's  bitter. 

JOEL 

[Rubbing  his  hands  over  the  coals.} 
A  mite  sharpish. 

•Copyright,   1912,  by  Percy  MacKaye.     All  rights  reserved. 

139 


140  SAM    AVERAGE 

ANDREW 

[Looks  up  eagerly.] 
What? 

JOEL 
Cuts  sharp,  for  Thanksgivin'. 

ANDREW 
[Sinks  back,  gloomily.] 

Oh! 

[A  Pause.] 

I  wondered  you  should  agree  with  me.     You  meant 
the  weather.    I  meant — 

[A  pause  again.] 

JOEL 
Well,  Andy:  what  'd  you  mean? 

ANDREW 
Life. 

JOEL 
Shucks ! 

ANDREW 

[To  himself.] 
Living ! 

JOEL 

[Sauntering  over  left,  listens.] 
Hear  a  rooster  crow? 


SAM    AVERAGE  141 

ANDREW 
No.    What  are  you  doing? 

JOEL 

Tiltin'  the  flag  over  crooked  in  the  dirt.  That 's  our 
signal. 

ANDREW 

Nothing  could  be  more  appropriate,  unless  we  bur 
ied  it — buried  it  in  the  dirt ! 

JOEL 

She  's  to  find  us  where  the  flag  's  turned  down.  I 
fixed  that  with  the  sergeant  all  right.  The  rooster 
crowin'  's  her  watch-word  for  us. 

ANDREW 

An  eagle  screaming,  Joel:  that  would  have  been 
better.  [  Rising.  ]  — Ah ! 

[He  laughs  painfully.] 

JOEL 

Hush  up,  Andy!  The  nearest  men  ain't  two  rods 
away.  You  '11  wake  'em.  Pitch  it  low. 

ANDREW 
Don't  be  alarmed.     I  'm  coward  enough. 


I42  SAM    AVERAGE 

JOEL 

'Course,  though,  there  ain't  much  danger.  I  'm  sen 
tinel  this  end,  and  the  sergeant  has  the  tip  at  t'other. 
Besides,  you  may  call  it  the  reg'lar  thing.  There  's 
been  two  thousand  deserters  already  in  this  tuppenny- 
ha'penny  war,  and  none  on  'em  the  worse  off.  When 
a  man  don't  get  his  pay  for  nine  months — well,  he  ups 
and  takes  his  vacation:  why  not?  When  Nell  joins 
us,  we  '11  hike  up  the  Niagara,  cross  over  to  Tona- 
wanda  and  take  our  breakfast  in  Buffalo.  By  that 
time,  the  boys  here  will  be  marchin'  away  toward 
Lundy's  Lane. 

ANDREW 

[Walks  back  and  forth,  shivering.} 
I  'm  afraid. 

JOEL 
'Fraid?    Bosh! 

ANDREW 
I  'm  afraid  to  face — 

JOEL 
Face  what? — We  won't  get  caught. 

ANDREW 
Your  sister — my  wife. 

JOEL 
Nell! — Why,  ain't  she  comin'  here  just  a-purpose 


SAM    AVERAGE 


143 


to  get  you?  Ain't  there  reason  enough,  Lord  knows? 
Ain't  you  made  up  your  mind  to  light  out  home  any 
how? 

ANDREW 

Yes;  that  's  just  what  she  '11  never  forgive  me  for. 
In  her  heart  she  '11  never  think  of  me  the  same.  For 
she  knows  as  well  as  I  what  pledge  I  '11  be  breaking — 
what  sacred  pledge. 

JOEL 
What  you  mean? 

ANDREW 
No  matter,  no  matter :  this  is  gush. 

[He  returns  to  the  fire  and  begins  to  fumble  over  the  contents 
of  his  knapsack.    Joel  "watches  him  idly.] 

JOEL 
One  of  her  curls? 

ANDREW 

{Looking  at  a  lock  of  hair,  in  the  firelight.} 

No ;  the  baby's,  little  Andy's.  Some  day  they  '11  tell 
him  how  his  father — 

[He  winces,  and  puts  the  lock  away.} 

JOEL 
[Going  toward  the  embankment.} 

Listen ! 

ANDREW 

[Ties  up  the  package,  muttering.} 
Son  of  a  traitor ! 


144  SAM    AVERAGE 

JOEL 

[Tiptoeing  back.] 
It  's  crowed.— That  's  her. 

[Leaping  to  his  feet,  Andrezv  stares  toward  the  embankment 
where  the  flag  is  dipped;  then  turns  his  back  to  it,  clos 
ing  his  eyes  and  gripping  his  hands. 

After  a  pause,  silently  the  figure  of  a  YOUNG  WOMAN  emerges 
from  the  dark  and  stands  on  the  embankment.  She  is 
bareheaded  and  ill-clad. 

Joel    touches    Andrew,    who    turns   and    looks    toward    her. 

Silently,  she  steals  down  to  him  and  they  embrace.] 

ANDREW 
My  Nell! 

ELLEN 
Nearly  a  year — 

ANDREW 
Now,  at  last! 

ELLEN 

Hold  me  close,  Andy. 

ANDREW 
You  're  better? 

ELLEN 

Let  's  forget — just  for  now. 

ANDREW 
Is  he  grown  much? 

ELLEN 

Grown? — You  should  see  him!     But  so  ill:  What 
could  I  do?    You  see — 

ANDREW 
I  know,  I  know. 


SAM   AVERAGE  145 

ELLEN 

The  money  was  all  gone.     They  turned  me  out  at 
the  old  place,  and  then — 

ANDREW 
I  know,  dear. 

ELLEN 

I  got  sewing,  but  when  the  smallpox — 
ANDREW 

I  have  all  your  letters,  Nell.     Come,  help  me  to 
pack. 

ELLEN 

What !    You  're  really  decided— 
JOEL 

[Approaching.] 
Hello,  Sis! 

ELLEN 

[Absently.] 
Ah,  Joel:  that  you? 

[Eagerly,  following  Andrew  to  the  knapsack.] 
But  my  dear — 

ANDREW 

Just  these  few  things,  and  we  're  off. 
ELLEN 
[Agitated.] 

Wait ;  wait !    You  don't  know  yet  why  I've  come — 
instead  of  writing. 


146  SAM    AVERAGE 

ANDREW 
I  can  guess. 

ELLEN 

But  you  can't:  that  's — what  's  so  hard.  I  have  to 
tell  you  something,  and  then — [Slowly.]  I  must  know 
from  your  own  eyes,  from  yourself,  that  you  wish  to 
do  this,  Andrew :  that  you  think  it  is  right. 

ANDREW 
[Gently.] 

I  guessed  that. 

ELLEN 

This  is  what  I  must  tell  you. — It  's  not  just  the 
sickness,  it  's  not  only  the  baby,  not  the  money  gone — 
and  all  that;  it  's— it's— 

ANDREW 

[Murmurs.] 
My  God! 

ELLEN 

It  's  what  all  that  brings — the  helplessness:  I  Ve 
been  insulted.  Andy — 

[Her  voice  breaks.] 
— I  want  a  protector. 

ANDREW 
[Taking  her  in  his  arms,  where  she  s.obs.] 

There,  dear ! 

ELLEN 

[With  a  low  moan] 
You  know. 


SAM    AVERAGE  147 

ANDREW 
I  know. — Come,  now:  we  '11  go. 

ELLEN 

[Her  face  lighting  up.] 
Oh ! — and  you  dare?    It  's  right? 

ANDREW 
[Moving  from  her,  with  a  hoarse  laugh.] 

Dare?  Dare  I  be  damned  by  God  and  all  his 
angels?  Ha! — Come,  we  're  slow. 

JOEL 
Time  enough. 

ELLEN 

[Sinking  upon  Joel's  knapsack  as  a  seat,  leans  her  head  on 
her  hands,  and  looks  strangely  at  Andrew.] 

I  'd  better  have  written,  I  'm  afraid. 

ANDREW 

[Controlling  his  emotion.] 
Now  don't  take  it  that  way.    I  've  considered  it  all. 

ELLEN 

[With  deep  quiet.] 
Blasphemously  ? 

ANDREW 

Reasonably,  my  brave  wife.  When  I  enlisted, 
I  did  so  in  a  dream.  I  dreamed  I  was  called  to 
love  and  serve  our  country.  But  that  dream  is  shat- 


148  SAM    AVERAGE 

tered.  This  sordid  war,  this  political  murder,  has  not 
one  single  principle  of  humanity  to  excuse  its  bloody 
sacrilege.  It  does  n't  deserve  my  loyalty — our  loyalty. 

ELLEN 

Are  you  saying  this — for  my  sake?  What  of  "God 
and  his  angels?" 

ANDREW 
[Not  looking  at  her.] 

If  we  had  a  just  cause — a  cause  of  liberty  like  that 
in  Seventy-six;  if  to  serve  one's  country  meant  to 
serve  God  and  His  angels — then,  yes:  a  man  might 
put  away  wife  and  child.  He  might  say:  "I  will  not 
be  a  husband,  a  father ;  I  will  be  a  patriot."  But  now 
— like  this — tangled  in  a  web  of  spiders — caught  in  a 
grab-net  of  politicians — and  you,  you  and  our  baby- 
boy,  like  this — hell  let  in  on  our  home — no,  Country 
be  cursed ! 

ELLEN 

[Slowly.] 

So,  then,  when  little  Andy  grows  up — 
ANDREW 
[Groaning.] 

I  say  that  the  only  thing — 
ELLEN 
I  am  to  tell  him — 

ANDREW 
[Defiantly.] 


SAM    AVERAGE  149 

Tell  him  his  father  deserted  his  country,  and  thank 
ed  God  for  the  chance. 

[Looking  about  him  passionately.] 
Here! 

[He  tears  a  part  of  the  flag  from  its  standard,  and  reaches 
it  toward  her.] 

You  're  cold;  put  this  round  you. 

[As  he  is  putting  the  strip  of  colored  silk  about  her  shoulders, 
there  rises,  faint  yet  close  by,  a  sound  of  fifes  and  flutes, 
playing  the  merry  march-strains  of  "Yankee  Doodle." 

At  the  same  time,  there  enters  along  the  embankment,  dimly, 
enveloped  in  a  great  cloak,  a  tall  FIGURE,  which  pauses 
beside  the  standard  of  the  torn  flag,  silhouetted  against 
the  first  pale  streaks  of  the  dawn.] 

ELLEN 

[Casing  at  Andrew. 
What  's  the  matter? 

ANDREW 

[Listening.] 

Who  are  they?    Where  is  it? 

JOEL 

[Starts,  alertly.} 
He  hears  something. 

ANDREW 
Why  should  they  play  before  daybreak? 

ELLEN 
Andy — 


150  SAM    AVERAGE 

JOEL 

[Whispers.} 
Ssh!    Look  out:  we  're  spied  on. 

[He  points   to   the   embankment.     Andrew  and  Ellen   draw 
back.} 

THE    FIGURE 

[Straightening  the  flag-standard,  and  leaning  on  it} 
Desartin'  ? 

ANDREW 

[Puts  Ellen  behind  him.] 
Who  's  there?     The  watchword! 

THE    FIGURE 
God  save  the  smart  folks! 
JOEL 
[To  Andrew.] 

He  fs  on  to  us.     Pickle  him  quiet,  or  it  Js  court- 
martial  ! 

[Showing  a  long  knife.] 

Shall  I  give  him  this? 

ANDREW 
[Taking  it  from  him.] 

No;  7  will. 

ELLEN 

[Seising  his  arm.] 
Andrew ! 


SAM    AVERAGE 
ANDREW 


Let  go. 


[The  Figure,  descending  into  the  entrenchment,  approaches 
with  face  muffled.  Joel  draws  Ellen  away.  Andrew 
moves  toward  the  Figure  slowly.  They  meet  and  pause.] 

You  're  a  spy! 

[With  a  quick  flash,  Andrew  raises  the  knife  to  strike,  but 
pauses,  staring.  The  Figure,  throwing  up  one  arm  to 
ward  the  blow,  reveals — through  the  parted  cloak — a 
glint  of  stars  in  the  firelight.]* 

THE    FIGURE 

Steady,  boys:  I  'm  one  of  ye.  The  sergeant  told 
me  to  drop  round. 

JOEL 
Oh,  the  sergeant!     That  's  all  right,  then. 

ANDREW 
[Dropping  the  knife.] 
Who  are  you? 

THE    FIGURE 

Who  be  If  My  name,  ye  mean? — My  name  's 
Average:  Sam  Average:  Univarsal  Sam,  some  o'  my 
prophetic  friends  calls  me. 

ANDREW 
What  are  you  doing  here — now? 

[*The  head  and  face  of  the  Figure  are  partly  hidden  by  a  beak- 
shaped  cowl.  Momentarily,  however,  when  his  head  is  turned  toward 
the  fire,  enough  of  the  face  is  discernible  to  reveal  his  narrow  iron-pray 
beard,  shaven  upper  lip,  aquiline  nose,  and  eyes  that  twinkle  in  the 
dimness.] 


1152  SAM   AVERAGE 

THE    FIGURE 
Oh,  tendin'  to  business. 

JOEL 
Tendin'  to  other  folks'  business,  eh? 

THE    FIGURE 
[With  a  touch  of  weariness.] 

Ye-es;  reckon  that  is  my  business.  Some  other 
folks  is  me. 

JOEL 

[Grimacing  to  Ellen.] 

Cracked! 

THE    FIGURE 

[To  Andrew.] 
You  're  a  mite  back'ard  in  wages,  ain't  ye? 

ANDREW 

Nine  months.    What  of  that? 
THE    FIGURE 

That 's  what  I  dropped  round  for.  Seems  like  when 
a  man  's  endoored  and  fit,  like  you  have,  for  his  coun 
try,  and  calc'lates  he  '11  quit,  he  ought  to  be  takin'  a 
little  suthin'  horn'  for  Thanksgivin'.  So  I  fetched 
round  your  pay. 

ANDREW 
My  pay!    You? 

THE    FIGURE 
Yes ;  I  'm  the  paymaster. 


SAM    AVERAGE  153 

ELLEN 

{Coming  forward,  eagerly.} 
Andy!    The  money,  is  it? 

THE    FIGURE 

[Bows  with  a  grave,  old-fashioned  stateliness.} 
Your  sarvent,  Ma'am! 

ANDREW 
[Speaking  low.] 
Keep  back,  Nell. 

[To  the  Figure.] 
You — you  were  saying — 

THE    FIGURE 

I  were  about  to  say  how  gold  bein'  scarce  down  to 
the  Treasury,  I  fetched  ye  some  s'curities  instead: 
some  national  I.O.U's,  as  ye  might  say. 

[He  takes  out  an  old  powder  horn,  and  rattles  it  quietly.] 
That  's  them. 

[Pouring  from  the  horn  into  his  palm  some  glistening,  golden 
grains.] 

Here  they  be. 

ELLEN 
[Peering,  with  Joel] 

Gold,  Andy ! 

JOEL 

[With  a  snigger.] 
Gold — nothin'!    That  's  corn — just  Injun  corn:  ha! 


154  SAM    AVERAGE 

THE    FIGURE 
[Sawing  gravely,] 

It  *s  the  quality,  Ma'am,  what  counts,  as  ye  might 
say. 

JOEL 

[Behind  his  hand.] 
His  top-loft  leaks ! 

THE    FIGURE 

These  here  karnels,  now,  were  give'  me  down  Ply 
mouth  way,  in  Massachusetts,  the  fust  Thanksgivin' 
seems  like  I  can  remember.  'T  wa'n't  long  after  the 
famine  we  had  thar.  Me  bein'  some  hungry,  the  red* 
folks  fetched  a  hull-lot  o'  this  round,  with  the 
compliments  of  their  capting — what  were  his  name 
now? — Massasoit.  This  here  's  the  last  handful  on  't 
left.  Thought  ye  might  like  some,  bain'  Thanks 
givin'. 

JOEL 

[In  a  low  voice  to  Ellen.] 

His  screws  are  droppin'  out.  Come  and  pack.  We 
Ve  got  to  mark  time  and  skip. 

THE    FIGURE 
[Without  looking  at  Joel] 

Eight  or  ten  minutes  still  to  spare,  boys.  The  ser 
geant  said — wait  till  ye  hear  his  jew's-harp  playin'  of 
that  new  war  tune :  The  Star  Spangled  Banner.  Then 
ye  '11  know  the  coast 's  clear. 


SAM    AVERAGE 

JOEL 

Gad,  that  's  right.    I  remember  now. 

[He  draws  Ellen  away  to  the  knap-sack,  which  they  begin  to 
pack.  Andrew  has  never  removed  his  eyes  from  the  tall 
form  in  the  cloak. 

Now,  as  the  Figure  pours  back  the  yellow  grains  from  his 
palm  into  the  powder  horn,  he  speaks,  hesitatingly.] 

ANDREW 
I  think — I  'd  like  some. 

THE    FIGURE 
Some  o'  what? 

ANDREW 
Those — my  pay. 

THE    FIGURE 

[Cheerfully.] 
So;  would  ye? 

[Handing  him  the  horn.] 
Reckon  that 's  enough  ? 

ANDREW 
[Not  taking  it.] 
That  's  what  I  want  to  make  sure  of — first. 

THE    FIGURE 
Oh !    So  ye  're  hesitatin' ! 

ANDREW 
Yes ;  but  I  want  you  to  help  me  decide.    Pardon  me, 


I56  SAM    AVERAGE 

Sir ;  you  're  a  stranger ;  yet  somehow  I  feel  I  may  ask 
your  help.     You  Ve  come  just  in  time. 

THE    FIGURE 

Queer  I  should  a-dropped  round  jest  now,  waVt 
it?  S'posin'  we  take  a  turn. 

{Together  they  walk  toward  the  embankment. 
By  the  knapsack,  Ellen  finds  the  little  frame.] 

ELLEN 
[To  herself.} 
My  picture! 

[She  looks  toward  Andrew  affectionately. 
Joel,  lifting  the  knapsack,  beckons  to  her.] 

JOEL 
There  's  more  stuff  ovei  here. 

[He  goes  off,  right;  Ellen  follows  him.] 

ANDREW 
[To  the  Figure] 

I  should  like  the  judgment  of  your  experience,  Sir. 
I  can't  quite  see  your  face,  yet  you  appear  to  be  one 
who  has  had  a  great  deal  of  experience. 

THE    FIGURE 
Why,  consid'able  some. 

ANDREW 

Did  you — happen  to  fight  in  the  late  war  for  inde 
pendence  ? 


SAM    AVERAGE  157 

THE    FIGURE 
Happen  to? 

[Laughing  quietly.] 

N-no,  not  fight :  ye  see — I  was  paymaster. 

ANDREW 

But  you  went  through  the  war? 
THE    FIGURE 

Ye-es,  oh  yes;  I  went  through  it.  I  took  out  my 
fust  reg'lar  papers  down  to  Philadelphie,  in  '76,  seems 
like  't  was  the  fourth  day  o'  July.  But  I  was  pay 
master  afore  that. 

ANDREW 

Tell  me:  I  Ve  heard  it  said  there  were  deserters 
even  in  those  days,  even  from  the  roll-call  of  Wash 
ington.  Is  it  true? 

THE   FIGURE 

True,  boy? — Have  ye  ever  watched  a  prairie  fire 
rollin'  towards  ye,  billowin'  with  flame  and  smoke, 
and  seed  all  the  midget  cowerin'  prairie-dogs  scootin' 
for  their  holes?  Wall,  that  's  the  way  I  watched 
Howe's  army  sweepin'  crosst  the  Jarsey  marshes,  and 
seed  the  desartin'  little  patriots,  with  their  chins  over 
their  shoulders,  skedaddlin'  home'ards. 

ANDREW 
What — the  Americans! 

THE    FIGURE 
All  but  a  handful  on  'em — them  as  weren't  canines, 


158 


SAM    AVERAGE 


ye  might  say,  but  men.  They  set  a  back-fire  goin*  at 
Valley  Forge.  Most  on  'em  burnt  their  toes  and  fin 
gers  off,  lightin'  on  't  thar  in  the  white  frost,  but  they 
stuck  it  through  and  saved — wall,  the  prairie-dogs. 

ANDREW 

But  they — those  others :  What  reason  did  they  give 
to  God  and  their  own  souls  for  deserting? 

THE    FIGURE 
To  who? 

ANDREW 

To  their  consciences:  What  was  their  reason?  It 
must  have  been  a  noble  one  in  Seventy-six.  Their 
reason  then:  don't  you  see,  I  must  have  it.  I  must 
know  what  reason  real  heroes  gave  for  their  acts. 
You  were  there.  You  can  tell  me. 

THE    FIGURE 

Real  heroes,  eh  ?  Look  around  ye,  then :  To-day  's 
the  heroic  age,  and  the  true  brand  o'  hero  is  al'ays  in 
the  market.  Look  around  ye! 

ANDREW 

What,  here — in  this  war  of  jobsters,  this  petty  cam 
paign  of  monstrous  boodle? 

THE    FIGURE 

Thar  we  be! 

ANDREW 

Why,  here  are  only  a  lot  of  cowardly  half-men,  like 
me — lovers  of  their  own  folks — their  wives  and  babies 
at  home.  They  "11  make  sacrifices  for  them.  But  real 


SAM    AVERAGE  159 

men  like  our  fathers  in  Seventy-six:  they  looked  in 
the  beautiful  face  of  Liberty,  and  sacrificed  to  her! 

THE    FIGURE 

Our  fathers,  my  boy,  was  jest  as  fond  o'  poetry  as 
you  be.  They  talked  about  the  beautiful  face  o'  Lib 
erty  same  's  you;  but  when  the  hom'-made  eyes  and 
cheeks  of  their  sweethearts  and  young  uns  took  to 
cry  in',  they  desarted  their  beautiful  goddess  and  skun 
out  horn'. 

ANDREW 
But  there  were  some — 

THE    FIGURE 

Thar  was  some  as  didn't — yes;  and  thar  's  some  as 
don't  to-day.  Those  be  the  folks  on  my  pay-roll. 
Why,  look  a-here :  I  calc'late  I  wouldn't  fetch  much  on 
the  beauty  counter.  My  talk  ain't  rhyme  stuff,  nor  the 
Muse  o'  Grammar  wa'n't  my  schoolma'am.  Th'  ain't 
painter  nor  clay-sculptor  would  pictur'  me  jest  like  I 
stand.  For  the  axe  has  hewed  me,  and  the  plough  has 
furrered;  and  the  arnin'  of  gold  by  my  own  elbow- 
grease  has  give'  me  the  shrewd  eye  at  a  bargain.  I 
manure  my  crops  this  side  o'  Jordan,  and  as  for 
t'other  shore,  I  'd  ruther  swap  jokes  with  the  Lord 
than  listen  to  his  sarmons.  And  yet  for  the  likes  o' 
me,  jest  for  to  arn  my  wages — ha,  the  many,  many 
boys  and  gals  that  's  gone  to  their  grave-beds,  and 
when  I  a-closed  their  eyes,  the  love-light  was  shinin' 
thar. 


160  SAM   AVERAGE 

ANDREW 

[Who  has  listened,  with  awe.} 
What  are  you  ?    What  are  you  ? 
THE    FIGURE 
Me?     I  'm  the  pay-master. 

ANDREW 
I  want  to  serve  you — like  those  others. 

THE    FIGURE 
Slow,  slow,  boy!    Nobody  sarves  me. 

ANDREW 

But  they  died  for  you — the  others. 
THE    FIGURE 

No,  't  wa'n't  for  me:  't  was  for  him  as  pays  the 
wages:  the  one  as  works  through  me — the  one  higher 
up.  I  'm  only  the  pay-master:  kind  of  a  needful 
makeshift — his  obedient  sarvent. 

ANDREW 

[  With  increasing  curiosity,  seeks  to  peer  in  the  Figure's  face.] 
But  the  one  up  higher — who  is  he? 

THE    FIGURE 

[Turning   his   head  away.] 

Would  ye  sarve  him,  think,  if  ye  heerd  his  voice? 

ANDREW 

[Ardently,  drawing  closer] 
And  saw  his  face! 


SAM    AVERAGE  l6l 

[Drawing  his  cowl  lower  and  taking  Andrew's  arm,  the  Fig 
ure  leads  hint  up  on  the  embankment,  where  they  stand 
together.} 

THE    FIGURE 
Hark  a-yonder ! 

ANDREW 
[Listening.] 

Is  it  thunder? 

THE    FIGURE 
Have  ye  forgot? 

ANDREW 
The  voice!     I  remember  now: — Niagara! 

[With  awe,  Andrew  looks  toward  the  Figure,  who  stands 
shrouded  and  still,  facing  the  dawn.  From  far  off  comes 
a  sound  as  of  falling  waters,  and  with  that — a  deep,  mur 
murous  voice,  which  seems  to  issue  from  the  Figure's 
cowl.] 

THE  VOICE 

I  am  the  Voice  that  was  heard  of  your  fathers,  and 
your  fathers'  fathers.  Mightier — mightier,  I  shall  be 
heard  of  your  sons.  I  am  the  Million  in  whom  the 
one  is  lost,  and  I  am  the  One  in  whom  the  millions  are 
saved.  Their  ears  shall  be  shut  to  my  thunders,  their 
eyes  to  my  blinding  stars.  In  shallow  streams  they 
shall  tap  my  life-blood  for  gold.  With  dregs  of  coal 
and  of  copper  they  shall  pollute  me.  In  the  mystery 
of  my  mountains  they  shall  assail  me;  in  the  majesty 
of  my  forests,  strike  me  down ;  with  engine  and  der 
rick  and  mill-stone,  bind  me  their  slave.  Some  for  a 


!62  -  SAM    AVERAGE 

lust,  some  for  a  love,  shall  desert  me.  One  and  one, 
for  his  own,  shall  fall  away.  Yet  one  and  one  and  one 
shall  return  to  me  for  life;  the  deserter  and  the  de 
stroyer  shall  re-create  me.  Primeval,  their  life-blood 
is  mine.  My  pouring  waters  are  passion,  my  light 
nings  are  laughter  of  man.  I  am  the  One  in  whom  the 
millions  are  saved,  and  I  am  the  Million  in  whom  the 
one  is  lost. 

ANDREW 

[Yearningly,  to  the  Figure.} 
Your  face! 

[The  Figure  turns  majestically  away.  Andrew  clings  to  him.] 
Your  face! 

[In  the  shadow  of  the  flag,  the  Figure  unmuMes  for  an  instant. 

Peering,  dazzled,  Andrew  staggers  back,  with  a  low  cry,  and, 
covering  his  eyes,  falls  upon  the  embankment. 

From  away,  left,  the  thrumming  of  a  Jew's-harp  is  heard,  play 
ing  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner.'' 

From  the  right,  enter  Joel  and  Ellen. 

Descending  from  the  embankment,  the  Figure  stands  apart.] 

JOEL 
Well,  Colonel  Average,  time  's  up. 

ELLEN 

[Seeing  Andrew's  prostrate  form,  hastens  to  him.] 
Andy!    What  's  happened? 

ANDREW 
[Rising  slowly.] 
Come  here.    I  '11  whisper  it. 


SAM    AVERAGE 

[He   leads   her   beside   the   embankment,   beyond   which    the 
dawn  is  beginning   to   redden.] 

JOEL 

Yonder  's  the  sergeant's  Jew's  harp.     That  's  our 
signal,  Nell.     So  long,  Colonel. 

THE    FIGURE 

[Nodding.] 
So  long,  sonny. 

ANDREW 

[Holding  Ellen's  hands,   passionately.] 
You  understand?    You  do? 
ELLEN 

[Looking  in  his  eyes.] 
I  understand,  dear. 

[They  kiss  each  other.] 

JOEL 
[Calls  low.] 

Come,  you  married  turtles.    The  road  's  clear.    Fol 
low  me  now.     Sneak. 

[Carrying  his  knapsack,  Joel  climbs  over  the  embankment, 

and  disappears. 

The  thrumming  of  the  Jew's-harp  continues. 
Ellen,  taking  the  strip  of  silk  flag  from  her  shoulders,  ties  it 

to  the  standard.] 

ANDREW 
[Faintly.] 
God  bless  you! 


SAM    AVERAGE 


ELLEN 

[As  they  part  hands.] 
Good-bye  ! 

[The  Figure  has  remounted  the  embankment,  where  —  in  the 
distincter  glow  of  the  red  dawn  —  the  grey  folds  of  his 
cloak,  hanging  from  his  shoulders,  resemble  the  half- 
closed  wings  of  an  eagle,  the  beaked  cowl  falling,  as  a 
kind  of  visor,  before  his  face,  concealing  it.] 

THE  FIGURE 
Come,  little  gal. 

[Ellen  goes  to  him,  and  hides  her  face  in  the  great  cloak. 
As  she  does  so,  he  draws  from  it  a  paper,  writes  ,on  it,  and 
hands  it  to  Andrew,  with  the  powder  horn.] 

By  the  bye,  Andy,  here  's  that  s'ctirity.  Them  here 
's  my  initials:  they  're  all  what  's  needful.  Jest  file 
this  in  the  right  pigeonhole,  and  you  '11  draw  your 
pay.  —  Keep  your  upper  lip,  boy.  I'll  meet  ye  later, 
mebbe,  at  Lundy's  Lane. 

ANDREW 
[Wistfully.] 
You  '11  take  her  home? 

THE    FIGURE 

Yes:  reckon  she  '11  housekeep  for  your  uncle,  till 
you  get  back;  won't  ye,  Nellie?  Come,  don't  cry, 
little  gal.  We  '11  soon  git  'quainted.  'T  ain't  the  fust 
time  sweethearts  has  called  me  Uncle. 

[Flinging  back  his  great  cloak,  he  throws  one  wing  of  it,  with 
his  arm,  about  her  shoulders,  tJius  with  half  its  reverse 


SAM    AVERAGE 


side  draping  her  with  shining  stripes  and  stars.  By  the 
same  action,  his  own  figure  is  made  partly  visible  —  the 
legs  clad  in  the  tight,  instep-strapped  trousers  [blue  and 
white}  of  the  Napoleonic  era.  Holding  the  girl  gently  to 
him  —  while  her  face  turns  back  toward  Andrew  —  he  leads 
her,  silhouetted  against  the  sunrise,  along  the  embank-' 
went,  and  disappears. 

Meantime  the  thrumming  twang  of  the  Jew's-harp  grows 
sweeter,  mellower,  modulated  with  harmonies  that,  filling 
now  the  air  with  elusive  strains  of  the  American  war- 
hymn,  mingle  with  the  faint  dawn-twitterings  of  birds. 

Andrew  stares  silently  after  the  departed  forms;  then,  slowly 
coming  d,own  into  the  entrenchment,  lifts  from  the  ground 
his  gun  and  ramrod,  leans  on  the  gun,  and  —  reading  the 
paper  in  his  hand  by  the  growing  light  —  mutters  it  aloud: 

U.  S.  A. 

Smiling  sternly,  he  crumples  the  paper  in  his  fist,  makes  a  wad 
of  it,  and  rams  it  into  his  gun-barrel. 


FINIS. 


NOTE 


NOTE  FOR  "THE  ANTICK." 

In  her  scene  with  John,  Julie  Bonheur  sings  snatches 
of  the  following  two  songs,  popular  among  the  Cana 
dian  French  for  generations,  and  still  sung  by  them. 
The  music  to  both  may  be  found  in  Ernest  Gagnon's 
"Chansons  Populaires  du  Canada,"  pages  124  and  151. 


TENAOUICHE  TENAGA,  OUICH'KA! 

C'etait  un  vieux  sauvage 
Tout  noir,  tout  barbouilla, 

Ouich'ka ! 

Avec  sa  vieili'  couverte 
Et  son  sac  a  tabac. 

Ouich'ka ! 

Ah!  ah!  tenaouich'  tenaga, 
Tenaouich'  tenaga,  ouich'ka! 

Avec  sa  vieill'  couverte 
Et  son  sac  a  tabac. 

Ouich'ka ! 

— Ton  camarade  est  more, 
Est  mort  et  enterra. 

Ouich'ka! 

Ah!  ah!  tenaouich'  tenaga, 
Tenaouich'  tenaga,  ouich'ka! 

Ton  camarade  est  more, 
Est  mort  et  enterra. 

Ouich'ka! 

C'est  quatre  vieux  sauvages 
Qui  port'nt  les  coins  du  drap. 

Ouich'ka ! 

Ah!  ah!  tenaouich'  tenaga, 
Tenaouich'  tenaga,  ouich'ka! 


C'est  quatre  vieux  sauvages 
draj 

168 


Qui  port'nt  les  coins  du  drap. 
Ouich'ka! 


Et  deux  vieill's  sauvagesses 
Qui  chant'nt  le  libera. 
Ouich'ka ! 

Ah!  ah!  tenaouich'  tenaga, 
Tenaouich'  tenaga,  ouich'ka! 


AH!   QUI  MARIERONS-NOUS? 

Ah!  qui  mari'rons-nous ?    [bis} 

Mademoiseir,  ce  sera  vous, 

Par  {'assemble'  d'amour. 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aim     .     qui  m'aime    . 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aimera. 

'Lui  donn'rons  pour  epoux?    [bis] 
Mon  doux  Monsieur,  ce  sera  vous, 
Par  1'assemble'  d'amour. 
Oui  j'aimerai,  etc. 

Amours,  saluez  vous!    [bis] 
Saluez  vous  cinq  ou  six  coups, 
Par  1'assemble'  d'amour. 
Oui  j'aimerai,  etc. 

Amours,  retirez  vous!    [bis] 

Retirez  vous  chacun  chez  vous, 

Par  1'assemble'  d'amour. 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aim     .     qui  m'aime    . 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aimera. 

The  refrain 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aim     ...     qui  m'aime     . 

Oui  j'aimerai  qui  m'aimera 

is  lilted  by  Julie,  as  she  dances  on  the  grass  by  the 
wayside. 


169 


THXS 


DATB 


INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


LD  21-1007n-8,'34 


.VB  3 1 880 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


